


Pretty Boys and Big Fat Bong Rips

by gilded_iris



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Hate Crime, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-15 07:31:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13608561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gilded_iris/pseuds/gilded_iris
Summary: Beverly reunites with The Losers one last time before they head their separate ways in adulthood. Bev just wants to be a normal teenage girl, Mike wants acceptance, Eddie is hopelessly closeted, Bill is heartsick, Richie is over the moon for Eddie, Stan is at a crossroad, and Ben Hanscom is in love.In each of their hands, The Losers hold a ticket – a piece of ephemera to say I was here, this was me, I was a teenager, and I went to my Senior Prom.





	1. Beverly Marsh Gets Dressed

**Author's Note:**

> So, wowza. I originally wrote and uploaded this fic way back in October, but deleted it a month later because I'm an anxious little ball of self-consciousness. While I was working on another fic, I rediscovered it. Now, I'm editing and re-uploading it! A super-duper thanks to all the people who read it the first time around.

****

###  _ Beverly Marsh Gets Dressed _

 

Portland, Maine was only two hours and fifteen minutes away from Derry, but to Beverly Marsh it seemed like a lifetime. After leaving to live with her aunt in the summer of '89, her life seemed to be on reset. Aunt Trudy had clothed and fed her, had bought her books and attended parent-teacher meetings, and now, as Beverly was approaching graduation, she was prepared to help her pay for college at the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York City. Still, Beverley had never truly bonded with her aunt. She loved her, but in the removed, submissive way that a child loves a teacher or any other figure of authority. Now, Trudy was pregnant with her own daughter and Beverly would no longer be needed. 

In school, Beverly was just as reclusive. She wasn't loved, but she also wasn't hated. She secretly revelled in the way she could pass through the halls of Portland High like a ghost. Her reputation in Derry had stayed behind, and to all the Portlanders, Beverly Marsh was just an average girl with a pretty face and trendy clothes. Sometimes, she wished she was invited to football games, or school festivals, or dances. _Dances_. She would be lying if she said that she wasn't bothered by the crêpe streamers and tempera-painted paper plates decorating her school's hallways as prom season approached. She hated the fact that she desperately wanted a ticket, a corsage, a dress – some piece of ephemera to say _I was here, this was me, I was a teenage girl, and I went to my prom._ So when she opened her mailbox to find a postcard with an invitation, imagine her surprise. 

_ You are my flaming muse, _

_ With locks like golden fleece unspun, _

_ So I must be Jason. _

_ Bev, I know it's been a long time. Derry's prom is coming up and all the other Losers are going to be there, would you be my date? My phone number is still (207)527-9818 _

_ -Ben  _

Her heart was fluttery when she read the card. Ben Hanscom. She hated to admit that it took her a second to remember him.  Through the muck of Derry, she'd had six little glimmers of rebel camaraderie – a group of motley outcasts who were just as repressed by the town as she had been. She hated to admit that it took her a second to remember them. It hadn't even been a full five years since she left Derry, but her whole life pre-Portland was like looking through a vaseline-smeared camera lens. What remained was mostly residual emotions, rarely anything concrete like people or places. Concrete memories of things like people or places were neglected crumbling structures in the hidden part of her mind. She and the rest of the Losers were great at keeping in touch at first, her aunt had even driven her up to Derry on long weekends and school breaks, but as time passed the letters, the phone calls, the visits became fewer and farther apart until senior year had come and Beverly hadn't heard from any of them, and hadn't thought to contact them in return. Until Ben. He had always liked her. She couldn't ignore his goo-goo eyes, even as she made her own at Bill.  _ Bill! _ How had she forgotten about him?  _ And Stan, and Mike, and Richie, and Eddie…  _ She wondered briefly if they all still lived in Derry — if they would be at dance — and suddenly her excitement quadrupled. She pressed the postcard against her chest and smiled. She ran back to her house and dialled Ben's number. 

She said  _ yes, I'd like to go _ , and  _ yes, I loved the poem _ , and  _ yes, of course I still remember you _ . They'd stayed on the line for nearly an hour, Ben answered her questions about the Losers: they were all still there, and everyone, even Mike the homeschool kid, would be going to Derry High School's senior prom. 

On prom night, she found herself getting ready two hour and fifteen minutes earlier than all the other girls who would be attending Derry's prom. But poor Ben! He'd be having to put his monkey suit on no later than 3 in the afternoon if he was going to pick her up and get them to the dance on time. Beverly thought of Ben driving his car to get her like a chubby James Bond and laughed to her reflection in the mirror. She had jars of cream and dollar-store cosmetics laid out like candy on her vanity. Before sitting down, she slipped her copy of  _ Who Loves You  _ by the Four Seasons out of it's sleeves and placed the needle on the outer edge as it began to spin. 

Cut out pages of Vogue and Elle Magazine shingled her walls. The glossy face of Christy Turlington looked at her as she wrapped her now scapula-length hair over hot rollers. As her hair set, she made her face up: a bit of pink eyeshadow here, eyeliner there, a swipe of Bonnie Bell over lips. When her rollers had cooled, she unwound them and carefully brushed the curls into soft waves. She ran her fingers through her long, red hair. Then, for the first time in for years, she remembered what her daddy always said:  _ whore's hair.  _ Suddenly fourteen again, she was compelled to take the scissors from her vanity and shear the whole damn mess off. But no, she put the scissors down and breathed.  _ This is my hair and I'm going to wear it long if I damn well please. _

Then she got up and dropped her robe. Her naked twin looked back her. By the time she'd turned eighteen, she'd had a fully-developed body for three years. Sometimes she caught men staring, but none grabbed at her, not anymore. A part of her was scared to go back to Derry. It was an inexplicable fright that ventured beyond creepy old men and grabby boys. She looked at the scar on her palm. Her distinct memory of getting it was covered in a fugue, but looking at it made her feel safe, like danger was gone and sent to hell. And if it ever returned, she knew there were Losers with matching scars ready to help her banish it for good. 

Still naked, she put on a pair of pink cotton panties and slipped her pumps on her feet. She looked to her dress hanging on the back of her door and smiled at it. Her aunt wasn't poor like her daddy had been, but she was far from rich. When Beverly asked to borrow one of Trudy's old dresses, she had been ecstatic, both at the money she was saving and at what seemed to be Beverly opening up to her. Beverly herself was concerned with neither, she just preferred the form flattering cuts and simple lines of fashions forgotten. After being presented with her aunt's closet, she chose a soft blue knee length dress that Trudy had worn to homecoming in 1966. Beverly had spent a week running it through her sewing machine. She'd let out the bust, took in the waist, and added tulle until the dress looked as though it had been made for Beverly all along. She took it from its hanger and stepped into it. 

It was then the record decided it had finished playing side A and Beverly clamored to flip it. When she rose, she caught her reflection and although she'd been getting ready in front of her mirror all day, seeing herself like this – complete – felt different.  _ My God, I think I'm pretty.  _

"Oh, Beverly you look so lovely!" Aunt Trudy said, standing in the doorway, hand on her swelling stomach. "I can't believe you fluffed up that frumpy old dress." She turned Beverly around and metal teeth nipped at her naked back as Trudy zipped her up. "Your daddy would be so proud of you if he were still here." Trudy rubbed her eyes on the sleeve of her sweatshirt; Beverly stayed silent. She had never opened up about her father's abuse, instead she had let her aunt mourn Alvin Marsh's mysterious death in peace. 

"Oh, sweetie! I'm so excited for you! This is your night and I want you to have fun.  I know these last few years have been difficult for you,  but just remember you're still a kid, you're allowed to enjoy yourself. You be out all night if you want. And if you want to be in your bed by midnight, just tell that Ben boy that I was being a old nag who demanded you be home early." As Trudy said this, she dug a tightly rolled triad of twenties from her pocket and placed them in Beverly's hand. "Now, this is for whatever you want. Just make sure you save a few bucks in case of emergency. And Oh!" she dug in her pocket again, "Here's a roll of quarters in case you need to call me! Even if it's in the middle of the night, I'll answer."

"Thanks for everything." Beverly giggled at the heavy weight of forty quarters in her hand. She'd have to be in one hell of an emergency to have to make that many calls, "but I doubt I'll be out all that long." Frankie Valli crooned to the now silent room as Trudy fiddled with her thumbs, eyes still hopeful. 

"I'm going to go grab my camera. I can't have you leaving before I get my pictures." Beverly smiled back at her aunt as she waddled back out, leaving her alone once more. She had barely lifted the needle off her record when the doorbell rang. 

"Coming!" She yelled and hurried to get to the door while her aunt was still searching for her old Leica, but once she was at the door, the solid oak felt like a barrier the separated her present from both her past and future.  _ Oh God, what if this was a mistake? What if he gets one look at me and realizes that I'm not really all that? What if I get to the dance and the guys don't really care to see me at all and I'm stranded two hours away from home. What if I have to use those damn quarters and call Aunt Trudy at three in the morning to pick me up!? _ No. She knew none of that would happen, she was sure of it. Ben was a good guy, he had been in '89 and he still would be in '94. She breathed in deep and turned the doorknob. 

Ben Hanscom stood on her aunt's front porch fiddling with small cardboard box and looking very different. Of course it was still him, his kind, heavy-lidded green eyes were like a window into her childhood. Suddenly, all the little details of him and the other Losers came rushing back. His barren yearbook, his secret love of The New Kids on the Block, his twice-slashed stomach… he had certainly thinned out though. His face was now well-defined and his rent-a-tux was well fitted to a now slim abdomen. He was tall too — who would have thought that chubby little Ben would one day be described as lanky?

"Bev, you look… I mean you are… you're stunning." Somethings never change, and it seemed that Ben's nervous little compliments would always have their boyish charm. 

"You don't look too bad yourself, Ben from sosh." She winked that playful, coquettish wink that had always set Ben's heart on fire. 

"I, uh, I got this for you." He handed her the box, his hands tremoring slightly with nerves. She lifted the top off to reveal a cluster of blue hydrangeas set on rich greenery with baby's breath framing the blossoms. "It's a corsage. The color reminded me of your eyes."

Thrusting the box back into Ben's hands, Beverly ran to the kitchen. She opened the icebox and pulled out a brown paper bag. "I got you something too," she said returning to the door where Ben stood anxiously. She took the box back, and slipped her corsage on her wrist as Ben lifted a boutonniere out of his bag. "Here, let me pin it on you." She brought the red rose to his buttonhole, and with his apparent growth spurt, she had to balance on her toes even in her pumps. She held the pins between her teeth as she placed the flower. As their eyes met, Ben's cheeks pinkened. He winced as Beverly slipped, poking him with one of the pins.

"Ah, shit! I'm sorry Ben. You're not bleeding are you?" Ben laughed and shook his head. 

Just as Beverly finally figured out the damn boutonniere, Aunt Trudy came out of the woodwork.

"Oh! This must be Ben! Beverly, you never told me he was so handsome!"  _ Dammit Trudy _ , thought Beverly as she willed her unborn cousin to sit on her aunt's bladder. 

"It's nice to meet you… Ms. Marsh?" said Ben, cursing to himself as he realized he was unsure of Bev's aunts lastname.

"It's Mrs. Claiborne now, but you're so sweet you could call me whatever you want!" Ben could feel his ears heat up. He was still unused to the female attention that he suddenly attracted after years of being laughed at and spit on by girls like Greta Keene.

"Aunt Trudy!" 

"Oh, I'm sorry dear," said Trudy, not looking very sorry at all, "now let me get your picture outside."

At five in the afternoon, the lighting was still satisfactory to Trudy's artistic sensibilities. She posed the couple with Ben standing behind Beverly, his arms wrapped around her.  _ How silly we must look, _ Beverly thought,  _ after two years of not seeing each other in person, Ben Hanscom has got his hands clasped around my waist and we're both stiff as statues.  _

"Oh these are going to look perfect," Trudy said, resting the camera hanging from her neck on her belly, "You look just like a couple from an old movie." Now it was Beverly's turn to blush.

"Would you look at that," Beverly said, looking at her wrist, "We've got to be going if we want to get dinner before the dance, we have to leave  _ now _ ."

"You know you're not wearing a watch, right?" Ben whispered into her ear, sending a little tingle down her spine. 

" _ Shhh! _ If we don't get out of here now, she'll never let us leave!" she whispered back. Aunt Trudy, apparently having not heard the exchange, bid them a farewell. Ben opened the passenger door of his Ford Escort, and Beverly, caught off guard, stumbled in. 

As they peeled away, the car was filled with silence. Little Ben Hanscom (who had never  _ really  _ been little) was now a full grown man sitting next to her, on a date with  _ her.  _ And he was handsome. Between the nervousness of pinning his boutonniere and the awkwardness of posing for pictures, Beverly hadn't yet had a moment to really look at his face. The fat had melted from his brow and chin, but there was a remaining softness in his cheeks that was so essential to her memory of Ben that it made her feel a rush of happiness. 

Even as Ben kept his eyes firmly on the road, Beverly could feel his nervousness. Just then, it occurred to her what braveness it must have took for him to send that postcard in the first place. Back when they were fourteen, Ben had trouble just speaking in front of her, and though she had always found it endearing, she was proud of him. And yet, she knew inside her it was that summer that had sprung his metamorphosis, and hers as well. Deep down, she knew that all the Losers had become adults before stepping foot in freshman year. It meant different things for all of them: Beverly learned to defend herself, Ben, it seemed had learned to care for himself, and though she had yet to be reunited with the others, she knew that they would not be the same kids she'd swum with in the quarry.  

"Hey, Ben?" she asked, five minutes out of Portland.

"Y-yes?" his reply came like an imitation of Bill.

"Thank you for taking me out."

"Of course, you couldn't very well miss prom. I uh, I mean I'm sure you already went to your own prom, but you know it's different? It sucks that you didn't get to go to highschool with us, but you should get to hang out with me and the rest of the Losers before we scatter off, right?"

She giggled, her eyes twinkling. For the guy who spent his childhood summers in the library and wrote beautiful poems, Ben sure could get his tongue in a twist. "Of course I'm excited to see all of them. But I'm glad it was you who asked me, I'm glad we could be on this… date."

Beverly could tell something inside of Ben lit up at that, even if she was only seeing the right half of his face. 

"Hey, uh, I don't know when you're aunt wants you to be home, but Big Bill's having an after-party at his house. His dad is at some sort of conference in Bangor and his mom went with him. Bill says we can all stay overnight if we want."

"I'd love to go," she said, the quarters in her purse suddenly feeling like a weight she should just fling out the window of the moving car. "My aunt didn't give me a curfew. I think she secretly wants me to stay out all night," she paused. "And for the record, I didn't go to my school's prom. No one asked me."

"Well, you're the only one in this whole world who I wanted to go with." She smiled at that.  _ Silly Ben, still making goo-goo eyes. _ "I've liked you for a long time, Bev."

"I like you too."

They spent the rest of the ride catching up. They exchanged the stories that had accumulated during their time apart over the low hum of the radio. As the sky turned pink on their long drive up I-95, Beverly Marsh thought through the thick fog encircling her memories to the chubby little boy who'd pulled her out of catatonia with a kiss. She smiled.v


	2. Mike Hanlon Sneaks Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mike Hanlon deserves more content

 

###  _ Mike Hanlon Sneaks Out _

 

Mike straightened his bow tie and finger-gunned the mirror. He patted his pockets and walked downstairs. 

Tonight was the night he was going to  _ finally  _ be like all the other Derry teenagers. After the summer of '89, Mike had begged to be enrolled in Derry High. His grandfather contested the idea on the grounds that he could learn just as much at home, but Mike knew his reasoning was deeper. Mike had spent his elementary years in school, only being pulled out when he was put under the care of his grandfather. As tough a man as he was, Mike could tell the old man was scared – scared of losing Mike in the same way he lost his son. By removing him from school, his grandfather reckoned he could toughen him up so he could 'face off any motherfucker who'd try and burn him down.' Eventually, Mike had digressed, but before the start of every school year he drudged the argument back up, only for it to be shot down again. 

But not tonight. With less than month until graduation, Mike was intent on going to Derry High's Prom and partying,  _ like a kid _ , before he and the rest of the Losers dispersed, possibly for good. And besides, his dad had gone to Derry's prom in 1959 and it must've been way worse back then, right? His father had been homeschooled until '55, when Derry High School became officially integrated (which wasn't saying much, as Derry's black community had been so miniscule that weren't nearly enough kids to erect a separate black school, especially after the burning of The Black Spot drove most of the black presence out of town) and along with five other kids, he became one of the first black kids to go to high school in town. He wasn't voted prom king or anything, but Mike knew that he his father had been glad to go. One of the few extant pictures of his parents together was their prom picture. In it was his mom and dad were forever embracing with Ebony Magazine smiles.

During the annual argument in '90, Mike had brought out the picture and said: "See! Black folk can go to school with white folk and have a good time." When his grandfather ignored him, he'd added: "It's not like I'd even be to only one! Toni Hepp is junior and she goes to Derry High! Winston Peagler, too! And Mr. Donovan says he plans to send all five of his kids there when it comes time! Look, I know it's not easy for us here, but things are getting better. You hiding me up at the meatshop when I ought to be in school ain't helping anything."

He'd gotten a smack over the head for that and his grandfather had said: "Time is cyclical, you fool. Latent racism is like a simmering pot, it'll boil over before you realize it. And I know you don't want to get your hands burned." 

_ (Hands burned he'd said.) _

"Huh. Cyclical."

"That's damn right! And you know how you know that word?" Mike'd stayed quiet, "It's because _I_ taught you. So don't be whining and whimpering about how you aren't getting an education, because we both know that's a damn lie."

"Yes, grandfather." Mike had sighed, accepting defeat.

"And you're lucky that I'm not making clap erasers for saying 'ain't.' Boy, you should be  _ thankful  _ that you're not in school." 

Mike scrubbed the memory.  _ Tonight will be different,  _ he thought. He'd spent the last few months meticulously planning. He'd gotten Mrs. Barton, the school's resident bleeding-heart liberal, to sell him a ticket. He'd bought Jen Hope, a black girl who'd recently transferred, a pack of cigs if she'd pretend to be his date if worse came to worse. He'd convinced Bill to give him a ride to the dance. He'd even saved up his paychecks so he could rent the stupid tux he was now wearing. As for his grandfather, well he was getting older. Mike'd tracked his sleeping patterns for a week and found out that he went to bed at 8:30 on average, and never later than 9. He was prepared to sneak out at 9:10 and crash at Bill's house after the party. For once, he was going to ask for forgiveness instead of permission. It was all perfect, until he walked into the living room to find his grandfather sitting in his La-Z-Boy with a glass of Coke in his hands.  _ Fuck.  _

"Before you start making excuses, I already know where you're off to." As his grandfather said this, all potential replies were sucked out of Mike's mind. "Sit down." Mike seated himself in the hardwood chair next to the recliner. "Tell me exactly what you were planning to do tonight."

"I thought you said you knew–" his grandfather cut him off.

"I  _ do  _ know. That stuttering friend of yours knocked on the damn door 'bout five minutes ago. Said you'd asked him to give you a ride to the prom. Now, answer the question: What were you planning to  _ do _ ?" 

_ Dammit, Bill.  _

"I'm planning to go to the prom, sir. I ain't – I mean I  _ don't  _ have a date or anything, if that's what you're worrying about. I'm just planning on going, talking with my friends, dancing… And I'm going to go to an after-party at Bill's house too. I'm probably gonna stay out all night and maybe I won't even be back by the time you wake up. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but that's what I'm planning." In that moment, Mike felt his balls must be made of steel. Then, his grandfather started to laugh a deep throaty laugh.

"Alright, son. Just know that you are very lucky that I already decided to let you go before you pulled that goddamn crap."

"What? Wait, really? You're gonna let me go?" His grandfather rose up from the chair and Mike stood to match him: face to face.

"I've spent long time teaching you and raising you. I know I don't say it, but I'm proud of the man you've become. I know you'll be off to college pretty soon and I think I can trust you. Let's consider this night a dry-run. But don't ever let me catch you lying to me again." 

If Mike wasn't so excited at the unexpected success of the conversation, he would've taken those words to heart and formulated a deep, emotional response. All he could manage was: "Thank fuck!"

" _ Jesus, son, _ " his grandfather said, his face still cheery from his laugh, "now do you have everything you need?"

"Uh, yeah. I got my ticket and a little bit of cash, just in case. Do I need anything else?"

"Are you bringing your knife?" If there was one lesson Mike would always remember from his grandfather, it was to  _ always carry a knife, you never know when you'll need it. _

"Yes, grandfather."

"Let me see it." Mike emptied his pockets and put the knife in his grandfather's hand. It was a small pocket knife with a sharp blade that had the initials 'E.C.' scratched into the side. He'd found it in Bassey Park the year he joined The Losers Club. He would've upgraded if it hadn't been for sentiment. 

"I thought you'd have better sense," said his grandfather flipping the little thing around. "Do you know what would happen if a teacher saw you with this? A negro boy sneaking into a prom he doesn't belong to  _ and  _ he's got a weapon. That's how you get yourself shot." It seemed his grandfather was intent on throwing him as many curve balls as he could.

"It's just that you said to always carry it–"

"I'm not telling you not to bring it. Take off your shoe." Mike was confused, but did as he was told. His grandfather took the shoe and slipped the knife in the interior. "There, now slide your foot in so the knife rests right under your arch." Mike did so and tied the shoe again. "Now it's on your person but won't fall out of your pocket. You've got to think smarter," his grandfather said, tapping his temple. Mike wiggled his foot, under his arch. The folded pocket knife was barely noticeable. 

"Thanks."

"Now get your ass out to the car, your friend has been waiting for nearly twenty minutes."

"Yes, sir!" 

Mike left in a hurry, still in shock at what had transpired. Bill's mom's Oldsmobile Cruiser was sitting out front with the lights off. Figures, Bill had probably cut the engine after a minute or so to save gas. Mike pulled at passenger's side handle.

"Get in the back, asshole," said Eddie Kaspbrak, already sitting in the front with a look of general discontent on his face.

"Didn't know you bummed a ride from Bill too." Mike replied, situating himself in the back.

"So long as Bill's driving this mom-mobile, I intend to get all the free rides I can."

"Shut up Eddie, you owe me like $50 in g-g-gas by now," Bill said, driving down Harris Avenue, "Why d-d-did it take you so long?"

"Remember when I told you I was sneaking out?" Bill nodded from up front, "Well that means you shouldn't spill the beans to my grandpa."

"Aw shit. My bad. It's okay though. We'll just show up at a more fashionable t-time."

"Unlike Richie. He told me student council made him get there at five," said Eddie, apparently forgiving Mike for being late, or at least over the fact.

"No way, does it really take that long to set up the turntables?" A couple years ago, Richie had taken up deejaying as his passion project, and in an attempt to save money, Derry High's student council hired him for his professional debut at prom. 

"It's not just the turntables! He's rented a sampler, a drum machine, and these giant fucking speakers. Not to mention two pairs of headphones and like five mics. He spent so much on rentals, I'll be surprised if he has any money left after getting paid," said Eddie in the lovingly vitriolic way he always did when talking about Richie. 

"Wow, he's really going all in." Mike felt oddly jealous at the way Richie had found something he so completely loved. He himself was planning on studying English, but beyond that he didn't have much of an idea. 

"Yeah, well he says he's gonna make a career out of it. Claims he's 'The Man of a Thousand Voices.' I tried to get him to go to college. You know he has a 4.0? I'd fucking kill for that, but no Richie is just gonna go to Hollywood and bum around, I guess."

"So new t-t-topic…" Bill said. Talks of the future always made him nervous even if he was already set to attend the University of Maine. He had desperately wanted to go to Bowdoin. He'd even had gotten in, but was unable to pay for a private education and instead accepted UMaine's generous scholarship. So it goes. He'd already chosen to major in English with a concentration in Creative Writing, but far be it for him to tell Eddie, who would probably end up mocking him for not doing something practical. "D-d-did you guys hear Beverly's coming?"

"No way!" said Mike and Eddie in unison. 

"Yeah. B-B-Ben asked her and, uh, she said yes. Obviously." 

"You don't still have a crush on her, do you?" Mike had always felt the awkwardness between Ben and Bill whenever the subject of Bev came up.

"No, not really. Not as much as B-B-Ben, anyway."

"Well you're the one who was sneaking down to Portland without telling her," Eddie chided.

"I wasn't s-s-sneaking! I had to go for ssss-ss-s–" a bit of spittle came out whenever Bill struggled with his 's's so severely. "Fuck!" he slammed his palms against the steering wheel, "I had to go to s-s-sp-speech therapy."

"Obviously it wasn't worth it mush mouth..." that was a low-blow and Eddie knew it even as he said it. Bill's stutter really  _ had  _ gotten better, in fact it had been barely noticeable before he'd taunted him. 

"Wuh-wuh-what is your pr-pr-pr-pr-problem Ka-Ka-Kaspbrak! You've b-been a d-d-d-dick all night!" Eddie's face burned with shame. 

"Sorry," Eddie curled in on himself in embarrassment, "I'm just anxious is all." Truth was, Eddie  _ despised _ school dances. People grinding up on each other, exchanging sweat and saliva… The only reason he'd agreed to come to prom was to see Richie deejay. 

"Well I, for one, am incredibly excited," Mike cut in to dispel the tension, "I finally have a chance to show you guys my moves _. _ "

"Your  _ m-moves _ ?" Bill asked, equally eager to cut off the conversation. He parked the car among rows of others in front of the school gym.

"Hell yeah! Now the sooner we get out of this damn car, the sooner you'll see." He said swinging out of the backseat. 

As the trio made their way to the gym, Mike could already hear the thumping of music. He wiped his sweaty hands on his pants and got his ticket ready. In front of the entrance, three teachers sat at the front, monitoring the door and admitting students. Mike made his way to Mrs. Barton's station, but Eddie — who'd been walking ahead – got there first. Bill approached Miss Guston, and so Mike, by default, had to check-in with Mr. Webb. Although he'd obviously never been taught by Mr. Webb, he knew from Jen that he was, in her words, "a real piece of work."

"Ticket?" Webb said as Mike approached, not looking up. As Mike's brown hand reached out, Webb's attention shot straight to his face. "I ain't ever seen you at this school. Get out of the line, mister."

"My name's Mike Hanlon. I'm a homeschool kid, but I bought a ticket." Mike looked up for Bill and Eddie and his heart jolted when he saw they'd already entered the gym, leaving him alone on the other side.  _ Fuck. _

"I think I'd fucking know if a nigger-kid was supposed to be coming. I already let that Hope girl in. She's good, complacent little nigger. Now, I ain't so sure about you. How do I know you ain't just some hustler coming in from out of town to prey on our young girls?"

"I'm eighteen, sir. I've lived here my whole life, sir. I bought my ticket, just like everyone else,  _ sir. _ " As calm as he was trying to be, the pocket knife in his shoe now throbbed against his arch.

"Oh, Mike!" called Mrs. Barton, "I'm  _ so _ glad you could make it! Come here and I'll check you in." Mike eased away from Webb, whose face was now twisted in disdain. He handed her his ticked, which she promptly made a sharpie X through. A brief flash of terror ran through Mike before she said, "It's so we'll know to let you back in. Have a good night Mike!" Her smile dripped like corn syrup. 

Inside, the lights were low and colorful and the beat of a song Mike didn't know was thrumming. Suddenly, he felt awkward. All the other kids were dancing together, and he was just standing by entrance twiddling his thumbs. Faces he didn't recognize flashed by and Mike started to panic. Maybe this had been a bad idea… Bill and Eddie were nowhere to be seen, and the only face he recognized was that of Richie Tozier who was busy scrubbing records. Mike had always been the outsider of the group, the last to join, the token black kid. 

"Mike!" He turned to find none other than Beverly Marsh's smiling face. She was followed by Ben, Bill, Eddie, and Stan and his girlfriend Moira. She took her hand out of Ben's and wrapped a hug around him. "It feels like it's been forever!" 

"Hey m-m-man, we thought we'd lost you! You have trouble getting in?" Bill said, a sloppy smile on his face. 

"Uh, just took me a second to find my ticket." Sometimes, lying about incidents like the one with Webb was just easier. Mike loved his friend's and they loved him, but they would never understand what it was like to be black in Derry. But they were Losers and they knew what it was like to be hated and that was enough. 

Bill clapped him on the back and Mike found an easy smile. 

"Well Eddie and I were just telling these g-g-guys about the killer d-d-dance moves you've apparently hiding."  _ Shit.  _

**"Bust it."**

Count on Richie Tozier to start playing the right song and the right time. 


	3. Eddie Kaspbrak Takes a Hit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: dramatic gay shit ahead

 

###  _ Eddie Kaspbrak Takes a Hit _

 

Eddie Kaspbrak was uncomfortable. Why the fuck did it feel like Richie was look right at _him_ when he played "P.Y.T?" And why did it feel like it wasn't Michael Jackson singing, but Richie himself? Ok, maybe that was because Richie was using his signature MJ impression to "enhance the experience," as he would say. And it was _good._ Eddie knew that Richie had been working with the entirety of Jackson's discography for months leading up to tonight. He knew the right places to loop, how to amp the bassline, when to use the pitch fader – whatever the fuck all that shit meant. 

Eddie remembered when Richie had first started to get into the whole deejaying thing.  _ It's written DJ, Eds. Just the initials, otherwise you just make it lame, _ Richie's voice echoed in his head. But hey! At least Eddie had stopped calling it 'disc-jockeying,' that was something, right? Richie had dug out his dad's old turntables – something Mr. Tozier still hadn't noticed – and had used his sticky fingers to lift a copy of  _ The Scratch Guide _ from the library. Every night for months, Eddie would come over to Tozier residence – where no parents ever seemed to be around – and watch Richie teach himself how to  _ DJ _ . Eddie would do his homework to the soundtrack of Richie scratching every record he touched, until finally,  _ finally _ , Richie got good. Really, really good. And  _ oh,  _ how Richie's face looked when he was fully enamored with those black discs of vinyl. His eyes would sit tight in concentration under his new, lightweight, titanium-framed glasses. 

Richie fucking loved those new glasses. His eyes no longer swam in the ocean of thick, coke-bottle lenses, but now in thin,  _ shiny  _ ones that made his eyes glitter. Eddie secretly kept Richie's old glasses.  _ Just in case, _ he'd said to himself,  _ what if some asshole breaks his new ones someday? _ So, the heavy adhesive-covered glasses of Richie's childhood now lived in Eddie's second fanny-pack. 

One day, after Richie had firmly planted himself in the 'good realm' of DJing, he'd handed Eddie a cassette tape. "It's 'cause I'm not gonna have to practice as much anymore, dummy." Eddie had nervously fidgeted with the tape, not daring to say a thing, "And it's good shit, too. I got new RCA cables and everything so I could record one of my sets. You play this, and you'll hear  _ my  _ live mixes, not some shit off the radio." 

That 64 mm x 100.5 mm piece of plastic had become such a stupidly special thing to Eddie. On the rare times that Eddie found himself alone at home, he would play the cassette. Some days, he skipped right to track four, "The Prettiest Star." His mother would have a heart attack if she knew he'd brought the "electro-fag" music of David Bowie into their house, but what would really kill her was if she found out that he would fucking  _ blast  _ that song and take out a stolen tube of Wet-n-Wild lipstick and draw a lightning bolt down his face so he would look like Aladdin Sane. 

Just then, Richie cross-faded "P.Y.T." to "Smooth Criminal," apparently eager to show off his Michael Jackson love tonight.  _ And goddammit,  _ every time MJ sang "Are you ok, Annie?" it sounded like Rich had somehow edited to say  _ "Eddie" _ instead. 

"I love this song!" Mike shouted and started doing an admittedly impressive pop-n-lock. 

"Get your ass over here!" Bev grabbed Eddie and broke into an almost impossible high-heeled moonwalk. 

With his attention snapped away from Richie's stupid, beautiful face, Eddie could focus on dancing. It was true, he hated school dances, but he loved his friends. Ben and Bev were now shimmying in front of one another, Stan and Moira were dancing awkwardly – a hoola-hoop of space between them – and Bill was giggling as he watched Mike attempt a worm.  _ At least they seem to be enjoying this shit.  _ Mike, Bill, Richie, and Eddie had all come stag, so Eddie was sure it wouldn't be awkward, but Richie was busy controlling the music, Jen Hope had her eyes on Mike, and Bill was working through his own shit, so now Eddie was left feeling like the only one who was truly dateless. 

_ Fuck this shit. _

As the song ended, Richie's voice crackled on the loudspeaker on for an announcement: "This is a reminder that I will  _ not  _ be playing "I Will Always Love You" and if I get  _ one more  _ request to do so, I'll play Anthrax until your ears bleed." Eddie stifled a laugh as one of the chaperones glared at Richie. Ignoring her, Richie continued, "Alriggggghhhhtt," in what was known as his 'Kinky Briefcase' voice "This one here is for all you single ladies." The Kinky voice was incredibly deep and goddammit, Eddie  _ knew  _ that Richie's wink was directed at him.  _ Fuck, fuck, fuck.  _ What was Rich's angle?

The lights turned from red to blue and the sound of thunder boomed from the speakers: "Hi! We're your weather girls... " and _no, Richie wouldn't dare._ He _knew_ that this song was Eddie's guilty pleasure… when they'd been younger, the boys would crank "It's Raining Men" whenever it came on the radio, dance around, and have a laugh. But that was before, when the Bowers gang called them 'fuckfaced faggots,' but it didn't really mean anything because they called everyone faggots. The Bowers gang was gone now, so why did that word mean something now? When did the word 'gay' stop being a harmless synonym for 'lame' and start feeling like vitriolic wind smacking Eddie's face? Maybe it was when Eddie started to pretend to be David Bowie or Lou Reed or sometimes even Klaus Nomi (which was worse, because not only was Nomi a fag, he was a _dead_ fag), all alone in the safety of his room. _Heh, electro-fags._ It almost sounded sort-of cool. 

"Hallelujah! It's raining men!" Stan belted, Moira giggling as she joined in. How easy it was for Stan to sing along! But, he had a girlfriend. Everyone was pretty sure Stan was already getting his dick wet, so he could sing this particular song as loud as he wanted with no suspicion.  _ Because it's funny when straight guys do it.  _ Soon the rest of Losers had joined loudly singing: "GOD BLESS MOTHER NATURE!" and dancing erratically.  _ Funny, funny, funny.  _

Eddie slipped from the group, made his way to the entrance, and ran past the teacher-chaperones out front. He curled in on himself, resting against a brick wall in a semi-concealed alcove behind the gym. The thumping of music still pounded through the brick wall and each  _ 1234, 1234 _ of the beat sounded like  _ fuck-ing fag-got, fuck-ing fag-got  _ in Eddie's ears. Suddenly, he couldn't breathe. He fished his inhaler from his pocket and pulled the trigger.  _ FUCKFUCKFUCK.  _ It was empty. How could it be empty? He carried the inhaler more as habit these days. He knew he didn't  _ really  _ have asthma, but every so often his chest would tighten up and his skin would feel too small and he would feel like he was really, absolutely dying. And if taking a hit of HydrOx mist helped him breathe again, well Eddie wouldn't fight it. But now, he was fucked, because the sugar-water in his inhaler was all used up and his back-up was on the floor of the Oldsmobile. If he went to get it, he'd have to get the keys from Bill – which meant facing Bill, who was still probably mad at him – and by the time he fished it from the parking lot he would surely be dead from oxygen deprivation. 

"Eds, are you out here?"  _ goddamnit,  _ that was Richie's voice curling around the corner, "Oh shit, are you okay man?" Riche bent down, putting his hand on the small of Eddie's back.

"My… inhaler… empty... " He said, gasping for breath intermittently. 

"Fuck, hold on," Richie dug around his own pocket for a second before pulling out a bright red back-up. "Remember deep breaths, from your diaphragm. Not too sharp! In.... Out… In… Out… There. You're okay." And he was. He had his inhaler and now he could breathe again.

"How'd you know to get this from Bill's car?" he said, holding up the plastic apparatus. 

"What?"

"The inhaler, how did you know I was going to have an asthma attack?"

"Oh, uh," Richie blushed, "I didn't, I carry an extra around. Just in case." Fuck if that didn't make Eddie feeling like he should be gasping for air again.

"Then, why'd you come looking for me?"

"You can see  _ everything  _ from that damn platform they put me on," Richie said this as though he didn't love the attention he'd been getting, "and, I saw you run out like you were vying to get your face on a box of Wheaties. I got Ken Bennett to cover for me so I could check on you."

"You got Kenny Benny to cover you?  _ Sophomore  _ Kenny? What the fuck is he even doing here?" Eddie hoped that his voice carried no jealousy.

"I told him he could be me assistant. You know, to carry equipment and shit? And Ken worships the ground I walk on, so I knew he'd do it for free."  _ I would have done it if you had asked,  _ Eddie thought. He felt as though Richie's DJing was meant to be sacred between the two of them. Eddie had been the one who'd helped him from the beginning, after all.

"That kid's been your shadow lately." This statement was all Eddie could manage.

"Yeah it was funny at first," said Richie, and then he shifted into W. C. Fields, his upper-crust snob character, "Sir Tozier and his manservant!" he shifted back to normal, "But now it's just getting weird."

"How do you mean?"

"Well you know…" No, Eddie decisively did  _ not  _ know. "Ken's the type of kid who hangs out at The Falcon."

"The Falcon?" Eddie figured if he said this really innocently, then maybe Richie would be convinced that he truly didn't know about Derry's only gay bar. 

"Geez, do I have to spell it out for you? Ken's a fag, I know it."  
"Beep-beep, fuckface," said Eddie with venom, his blood feeling somehow boiling and freezing at once. He knew Rich and the other Losers sometimes threw that word around like most other teenage boys, but Eddie had never heard his friend say it with _hate_ in his voice.

"Don't call me fuckface."

"Don't call  _ me  _ a fag!" 

"Woah! I called Kenny a queer, not you." Richie said, looking almost offended.  _ Fuck him. _

"Whenever you and the rest of the guys say that shit, it sure fucking  _ feels _ like you're talking to me." It was true, Eddie had always been the smallest and girlish of the group – a fact that made him frightened that one day they'd knock him down.

"If you're trying to tell me something–"

"Forget it." Eddie drew his knees to his chest. Richie was sat next to him, but neither looked at the other.

" _ And I-YEE-AYEE will always love YOU-OOOH-OOOH!"  _ Whitney Houston's voice blasted through the walls of the gym.

"Dammit Kenny." Rich muttered to the night air.

"You do realize that if he put the song on, that means you have the album, right?"

"Um, the uh, the school supplied the music."

"Yeah, because I'm sure the school has an extensive collection of Run-DMC." There was no way Eddie was going to let him off the hook for this.

"Ok, ok, this is my confession _ : I like Whitney Houston. _ " Eddie wanted to to laugh, to smile like Richie was, but the tension was still there. 

The blanket of silence fell over them again. Then, in small voice, Richie spoke again: "You know, I've never told anyone, but um, I've uh, done  _ stuff _ with guys before." Just like that, the air left Eddie's body again.

"Yeah fucking right. Letting Kenny suck you off doesn't count," as he said that, he didn't mean it, but secretly, Eddie was scared Kenny  _ had  _ actually been blowing Rich. 

"Ew, I'd never let him near my dick. He has braces and more zits than the sky has stars," replied Richie, pointing to the twinkly constellations above.

"I was joking. Were you?" 

"Uh, well no. I, erm, I've really been with guys before." 

"Don't mock me Rich, it's not nice."

"I promise I'm being serious," Richie turned, meeting Eddie's eyes and continued. "Two years ago, I almost ran away – tried to escape this shit town early. I bought my bus ticket and everything. The night I was gonna slink away, when I got to the station, I just couldn't do it. Couldn't leave you–" Eddie's heart thrummed, "–and uh, the rest of the Losers too. So there I was, alone at the bus station, suddenly plan-less. I didn't want to go home, so I just walked over to The Falcon, hoping to get a beer or something – Mr. Curtie didn't even card me. And well, there was this guy there, early twenties maybe, and he was just eyeing me up and down. So I thought:  _ fuck it, I've just shitted out of my escape plan, I can't face going home, and no one knows me here anyway _ ." 

How had Richie never told him any of this? 

"Jesus fuck. Tell me you didn't let him... That's how you fucking get AIDS!" 

"I'm clean. I went to a clinic in Bangor like a month later and my blood's just a pure as ever."

"So, that means you really—"

"Let him fuck me? Yeah. It wasn't great, he wasn't too big on lube and it stung like a bitch. Hell, I don't even remember if he was wearing a condom. But it did confirm some things for me."

"So now you're telling me you've really been,  _ as you put it _ , a  _ fag _ all along?"

"No," Eddie's eye shot to Richie and stared him down, "At least not completely. I like girls too. Maybe I'm bisexual? I dunno, I don't think about it a lot." Then, after a few seconds, "Anyway, I think it's your turn to share." 

"What the fuck do you want me to say?"

"Eds, I know you're gay."

"Don't call me that," and when Eddie said that, Richie wasn't sure whether he meant 'Eds' or 'gay.' "This is so fucked." 

"Look, I know how your mom feels about queers, and maybe I'm lucky that my parents are never around to fill me with that crap, but I don't think any of the shit she says is true." When Eddie stayed silent, Richie added, "You know straight people can get AIDS too, right? That kid, Ryan White, got it from a blood transfusion or whatever, and I know he wasn't going around getting butt-fucked. That chick from Gunsmoke had it too. And Magic Johnson too, hell he's even still ali—"

"Crawford Barton died the other day."

"Uh, who?" 

"He was this photographer who took pictures of gay culture in California. Look at where that fucking got him. Let's just say I  _ was _ gay, even if I didn't get the plague," the  _ gay  _ plague, "What kind of life would I lead? I'd be alone a-an-and ostracized! The other Losers probably wouldn't even want to talk to me. And my mom, can you even imagine that fucking reaction? She'd probably send me to one of those electro-shock camps."

"Okay, well first off, your mom can't send you anywhere now, you're eighteen. And as for your future, well I know it's gonna be fucking awesome whether you've got a cock in your mouth or not."

"Beep-beep." Silence. And then, "Hey, uh, you know that tape you gave me? And those songs you were playing? Were you trying to say something?"

"Uh, heh. I was just fucking with–"

"If you finish that sentence the way I think you will, I’ll fucking kill you."

"I’m sorry Eds. It’s just – well I like you. A-And the thought of you not liking me back… It makes me feel sort of numb. I didn’t realize I was hurting you like this… I wouldn’t have made moves like that if I did. Fuck," and then W. C. Fields busted out again, "I’ve made a right mess out of this!" he trilled on the r.

"Don’t." Then, in an incredibly small, incredibly young voice: “I’m gay, Richie.”

"I know, Eddie."

 


	4. Bill Denbrough Heads Out

 

###  _ Bill Denbrough Heads Out _

 

_ This blows, _ Bill thought as 'I Will Always Love You,' faded into '(I Can't Help) Falling in Love With You.' Where the fuck had Richie gone? He wasn't sure, but at some point little Kenny Benny had taken over the deejaying duties, and Bill wasn't about this sappy shit. 

As long as these stupid songs were playing, Bill would continue to be wedged between happy couples. Ben and Bev were on his left, Stan and Moira were on his right, even Mike had stopped dancing by himself and now had Jen in his arms. Eddie was AWOL.  _ Man, why'd he have to be such a dick earlier? _ Bill and Eddie had been friends with each other long before The Losers had even banded together, but lately Eddie was just acting off. He was more skittish than usual and that shit about his stutter in the car had just been mean. Eddie knew Bill still had feelings for Bev, he  _ had  _ to. And now, after so many months of not seeing her, Bev was just a foot away from him – dancing with Ben.  _ Yup. This blows big fat chunks, you bet your fur. _

When Bev had first moved to Portland, she came back all the time. Sure, it'd sucked that they weren't in class with each other, but before the summer of '89, they hadn't really talked in school much anyway. Things were different after that summer, though. Before Bev had left, Bill had kissed her, and she'd kissed him back! But they'd both really been too young to be in a real relationship back then, and whenever Bev came back to Derry _everyone_ wanted to hang out with her. So, for years it had been a moot point: nothing lost, nothing gained. Sometimes they'd kiss and sometimes they'd hold hands, but never anything more and always in private. Then Bev'd stopped coming so much, and Bill'd gone out with some girls in Derry. Nothing too serious, but he'd gotten to know a few of the girls well enough to do a bit more than kiss. 

As for the going to Portland thing… well it was kind of embarrassing. His parents finally decided to take him to speech therapy during freshman year and ever since, every other Wednesday he would go down to Portland and see Mrs. Thomas, the best speech therapist in the state. It helped. She taught him to lisp on letters he couldn't say and to switch to French if a whole word gave him trouble. He'd improved so much that by his third visit, Mrs. Thomas had declared him cured. And he had been! 

On the ride back from Portland he'd read a book aloud to his mom and hadn't stuttered or even stammered once. But as soon as he'd gotten back to Derry and walked passed Georgie's room, he forgot everything he'd learned just like that. "Duh-d-dd-d-d-duh-dad? Can you p-p-pppp-pass the buh-buh-bb-butter?" he'd said at dinner that night. "Oh, for God's sake Bill! Just say  _ Père, vas-tu me passer le beurre? _ Like Mrs. Thomas told you, just say  _ le buerre,  _ Bill.  _ Le buerre! _ " His mom just buried her face in her hands in frustration and his father had slammed his fork down and went to bed early.

NNeedless to say, two weeks later he was back in the car with his mom on his way to see Mrs. Thomas. His mom would sit with the parents of all the thick-tongued and small-jawed kids and wait for her  _ perfectly normal _ son to finish his appointment. Bill wasn't sure what is was that made his stutter disappear fifteen minutes outside Derry, but he did know he wasn't faking it as his mom implied. And he also knew that if he'd ever asked to see Bev while they were in Portland, his mom would shout:  _ Ah, ha! That's it! That's why you've been making me drive you all the way down here twice a month for years! You just want to see a girl!  _ No. 

As for phone calls, well sometimes he'd try. He would dial up the number to Bev's aunt's house and whenever there would be an answer, all Bill would be able to say was, "Cuh-c-c-c-c-ccc-c-cuh–" and then he'd be cut off by Bev's aunt hanging up. Figures. He probably sounded like a panting pervert. 

So, he'd just gotten over that stupid little crush. Well, he thought he had. Now here Bev was, and there was Ben. Stupid, lovable, good-friend Ben who'd lost all that fat and now looked like a young John Wayne. Bill wasn't ever going to be mad at Ben for this, and he certainly wasn't going to fight him, but it made his heart pump weird irregular beats when he saw him dip her to 'Caribbean Queen,' as it blasted from the speakers.  _ Finally,  _ a song he could at least sort-of dance to with out looking like a broken bicycle. He looked up and saw that no, Richie hadn't come returned.  _ Weird. _

"Hey, duh-d-did any of you guh-guys see Richie leave?" He yelled over the music to no one in particular. When none of The Losers looked up, Bill tapped on Mike, who was back to dancing solo. "Mike, you know where Richie went?"

"Huh? He's not up there anymore?" said Mike, slowing down and looking at the platform. 

"Hey, I think Eddie's gone too," cut in Ben, who'd apparently heard Bill after all. 

"Maybe they're  _ together _ ?" Bev said with mock scandal.

"Eeeeewwwww…" whined Moira.  _ Shut it M,  _ thought Stan, trying to distract her by twirling her.

"Whatever, I'm gonna h-h-head out early," said Bill, turning towards the exit.

"No! It's not even eleven, yet!" cried Bev, sneaking a peek at Ben's Timex. 

"Well, someone's got to set up my house for you c-c-crazy k-k-kids," Bill replied, mustering some mirth, "G-gg-g-gotta get the fan blasting for whenever Richie decides to start lighting up."

"Oh, alright, but only because this place is thinning out anyway." It was true. Bill hadn't noticed it as he was sulking, but more than half of the gym had emptied. Some kids had left for hotel rooms, others for their own after-parties. God, he'd be pissed if Richie and Eddie really had decided to go off without the rest of the group. 

"Hey, Mike and I are gonna look for Eddie and Richie," Ben piped up. 

"Yeah," added Mike, "I'm sure they're just getting high and fucking around outside, but you know how important this gig is to Rich and he would be pissed at all of us if the school ends up giving Kenny half his check." 

"Ok, you j-j-just want t-t-to follow me out then?" Mike and Ben nodded, and the three of them exited the gym. Bev stayed inside, bickering with Moira about what was really 'ew' and Stan watched, fidgeting nervously.

"You ok Bill?" asked Ben as they stood in front of them gym in relative quiet, teachers presumably gone. 

"Uh, yeah. I just gotta go and get stuff ready. P-pour chips in b-b-bowls, puh-plug in the stereo… you know, the works," replied Bill, hooking his thumbs in his pockets, "P-prom's over in, like, an hour anyway."

"Ok, we'll see you then," called Mike, but Bill was already walking back to the car, "Oh shit!" Mike continued, turning to Ben.

"What?"

"Bill gave Eddie and I ride."

"No worries, you guys can just ride with me and Bev."  

The thought of driving Mike and Eddie was far from Bill's head as he climbed in the front seat of the Oldsmobile. It was true that he should probably fix up the house before everyone got there, but still, he was mad at himself for being the first to head out.  _ Whatever, my party is gonna be cooler than this shit was anyway,  _ he thought to himself, adjusting the mirrors as he did so.

_ It's not like I'm missing anything.  _ That wasn't true though. If he'd stayed standing with Mike and Ben for just thirty more seconds, he would have seen Eddie running towards them, screaming: 

" _ HELP! _ "


	5. Richie Tozier Gets Hit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> heed the tags

 

###  _ Richie Tozier Gets Hit _

 

There were two things going through Richie's mind. One: kissing Eddie felt like a holy sacrament. His lips made him feel the way wine in communion was  _ supposed  _ to make him feel. Two: he had no idea how it came to be that his lips were making that divine contact with Eddie's.

He didn't even think Eddie would  _ want  _ to kiss him, or anyone really. Sure, he was gay, everyone knew that, but it was always Richie's theory that Eddie would get too gummed up about being  _ queer _ to ever act on it. Whenever he imagined him as a grown up, he alway saw his Eds in loveless marriage with a gross woman who he hated to touch. In short: he imagined Eddie marrying someone like his mother. Had really thought that low of Eddie?  _ My Eddie, no he's too brave.  _ But it did seem like the most likely possibility. And it made it easier to let himself love Eddie, because then it was just a fantasy. And then it wasn't. Because now, Richie had his hands curled around the soft flesh of Eddie's cheeks as they kissed in the little alcove behind the gym.  _ This is really, really, real _ . 

Then, the soft popping of the vacuum seal around their mouths being broken announced that Eddie had pulled himself away. Good. Richie needed a second to catch his breath and calm his dick. Fuck if it didn't deflate faster than it ever had before when he heard Eddie's muffled cry. He opened his eyes to see Eds with his face in his hands.  _ Aw, shit. _

"Eddie..? Did I do something wrong?" He shouldn't have done this. He shouldn't have done  _ any _ of this. It was too late, though. He'd kissed Eddie, made him come out, told him about the guy from The Falcon, followed him outside, winked at him, played that song, given him that mixtape, hung out with him after school, tried to snap his broken arm back in place, joked about his mom,  _ talked to him for the first time. _ None of that should've happened, because if it hadn't, little Eddie Kaspbrak wouldn't be sitting outside his senior prom sobbing into his hands. 

"I'm fucked. You're fucked. We're fucked.  _ We're fucked, man!" _

"Eds… Eddie you're scaring me–" said Richie. Eddie's eyes got low and mean.

"You should be scared," he said look at his hands flexing and contracting as if he were making sure they still worked, "Why aren't you scared?"

"Well, uh," Richie scratched the back of his head. He didn't really know the answer. "The guys at The Falcon," he regained his voice, "they're not like the rumours. They're not sex-crazed fags who rub cocks on the dancefloor. They're just regular guys I guess. You know, they all have jobs and taxes and pets and families and stuff. Lots of 'em are just passing by for a drink and then they go home to their boyfriends. And yeah, being gay in Derry isn't easy, but we're getting out of here, man! You're going off to college and I'm making my way out to sunny L.A. where anything goes!" Eddie had stopped crying as Richie was talking. He sat, staring up at the stars. 

"It knew I was like this," he said after a few seconds. 

" _ It,  _ it?"

"Yeah. The Leper, he _ knew.  _ He taunted me about it. Wanted me to let him  _ touch  _ me… in that way."

"That's some deep-rooted shit." Richie frowned. 

"Yeah." Another silence followed. Eddie wiped his eyes and sniffed his nose. "You must think I'm real pathetic."

"I don't." Richie spoke in his soft voice and rested his hands on top of Eddie's. 

"That uh, that was a pretty good kiss." 

"Yeah? I practiced with your mom."

"Beep-beep, Richie. Fuck off," Eddie said, finally smiling.

"Only if you really want to," Richie replied with a lopsided grin even though he was absolutely serious. 

Eddie suddenly moved, placing himself in Richie's lap and dammit if Richie didn't get harder quicker than he ever had before. His dick was certainly having an interesting evening. Before he could say anything, Eddie's mouth was back on his.  _ Definitely a sacrament. _

Then, when Richie opened his eyes for a split second, he saw three figures move in the dark.

"Mmm.." Richie's tongue vibrated in Eddie's mouth as he started talking. "Eds!" There was the pop again. 

"Just fucking shut up and kiss me, Richie."  _ Okay that was hot, _ he thought, and in any other situation it would be, but they were at edge of Bassey Park, behind their school, there was slab of concrete and blasting synth-pop between them and the rest of their friends, and now there were three guys walking towards them.

"Well, _holy_ _shit_ boys!" The tallest of the figures emerged, steel-toed boots now directly in Richie's line of sight. Fear, ice cold ran through his veins in a way it hadn't since '89. "Looks like we caught ourselves some fags!"

The voice belonged to Jimmy "Clench" Garton, a nineteen year-old high school dropout with five teeth missing, a body the shape of a brick, a buzz-cut, and an unshakable God complex. Behind him was Joey Ricketts, the seventeen year old strung-out heroin addict and Bobby Carter, the fifteen year old kid whose hobbies included rubbing snot on his pants and squishing fireflies on his shirt. 

Before Eddie could turn around and see this gang, Clench grabbed him by the hair and yanked him off Richie, slamming him into brick wall and ripping out a patch of hair.

" _ Shut up and kiss me? _ Jesus Christ be damned if that ain't the faggiest thing I've ever heard!"

"What the fuck are you doing here Jimmy? You were too fucking retarded to finish ninth grade and now you have to come and crash prom to make yourself feel better?" said Richie standing up. "Is it your fucking mission to pretend to be Henry? Huh? He kicked your ass five years ago, and now that he's gone you think it's your job to take his place? Well, he's fucking dead! Because that's what happens to thick headed, inbred, dumb mother–" he was cut off by the worse pain he'd ever felt. A  thick, crunching punch hit him right between the frontal and maxillary bones of his skull. His glasses shattered immediately on impact and shards of the battered right lense were embedded in his eye. 

"Now let me explain some things," Garton said, shaking the glass from his fist, "my constituents and I are here because this is  _ America  _ and we're allowed to be where we please, thank you very-fucking-much." Eddie was shrivelled in a ball where he'd been thrown.  _ Fuck-ing fag-got, fuck-ing fag-got _ the beat started again in his head. His ears felt like they'd been stuffed with cotton.  _ We're going to die.  _ The thought flowed through him as naturally as the blood flowed out of his nose and onto his shirt. 

"Fuck you and fuck your constituents!" Richie yelled from the ground as he clutched his eye. The remainder of his ruined glasses lay discarded. 

"Shut up, Richie! He'll kill you!" Eddie said, the stars in his vision started to fade.

"You better listen to your little twink," said Joey, twitching in the dark.

"Yeah, shut up Richie!" Bobby added, clapping his meaty hands together like he was at the circus, "He'll kill you!"

"Now here's your situation," said Clench, squatting down to Richie and Eddie's level, "when I saw you two fagging out, I knew I had to stop that shit – nothing personal, just my civic duty – but then you," he jabbed his finger in the middle of Richie's chest, "had to fucking make it personal. Calling me retarded? No, no, no. That's just mean. So, now I have beef with you and I'm gonna have to teach you some things. And then there's you," his other finger jabbed Eddie, "far as I can tell you just a harmless little girly-boy. Ain't that right queer-mo?" Eddie nodded tersely. "So I'm gonna cut you a deal, because I'm that nice of a guy! I'm gonna let you leave, yes indeed-y! You leave us here with the ass-bandit and you go home with nothing more than a bloody nose. It's your lucky day!"

"N-n-no, I'm not just gonna leave him. Fear, pure unadulterated fear, pulsated through Eddie's veins.  _ Fuck-ing fag-got, fuck-ing fag-got.  _

"Get out of here Eds," Richie said, "I can handle myself, you know I'll be fine. I can take this shit."

"Huh! Even your little boyfriend knows a good deal when he sees one. So I'm gonna give you one more chance: runaway faggot! Runaway!"

God forgive him, Eddie ran. He ran as fast as he'd always dreamed he'd be able to run. He ran until his heart thrummed like a hammer in his chest: _FUCK-ING FAG-GOT, FUCK-ING FAG-GOT._ It was a roar now. " _HELP!"_ he cried, the front of the gym in sight. _Where did all the fucking chaperones go?_ _Did prom end while we were talking? Did they just leave?_ They hadn't, but when Eddie was in front of the gym screaming _"They're gonna fucking kill him! HELP!"_ the teacher chaperones had simply considered their jobs done and left at 10:30, a full hour before prom would be over, and thirty minutes before Eddie would desperately need their help. 

"You know why they call me Clench?" said Garton once Eddie was out of sight.

"Because of the way your asshole clenches around your dad's dick?" Richie spat.

"You are one dumb motherfucker. They call me Clench because–" and that was when Richie tried to run. Before he was even fully standing up, Bobby and Joey had their arms on him. 

"Woah! Do you even realize how disrespectful you're being?" Clench said to Richie Then he turned to his goons. "Hold him down and pull his shirt up, I have an idea." 

"Oh my God. Eddie, what happened to your face?" Ben said tearing his eyes away from Bill's Oldsmobile as it pulled out of the parking lot.

"Richie and I were hanging out behind the gym and Clench Garton and his friends just came out of nowhere and started wailing on us!"

"Woah!" Bev came out of the gym, with Stan and Moira in tow, "We were getting bored without you guys, what's going on?"

"Richie and I were attacked! And I just fucking left him! We need to go back  _ right now _ because they're gonna _ fucking kill him! _ " Eddie took off running, with the motley crew not far behind, back to the alcove where he and Richie had been kissing barely ten minutes ago. 

"Once I'm finished with this, everyone will know just what you are!" He could hear Clench's voice followed by the horrific sound of Richie screaming like livestock in a slaughterhouse. As he finally was in sight of them, he could smell burning flesh as he watched Clench hold a lighter under the broken titanium stem of Richie's glasses. The letters F-A-G-O were already branded into Richie's stomach. 

"Holy shit!" and without hesitation, it was Ben who leapt into the alcove and pulled Clench into a headlock. Bev threw the first rock, followed by Stan. Moira hurled a big one that hit Joey square in the face. It was amazing how quickly Bobby and Joey fled. In fact, they ran almost as fast as Eddie had run when he'd left Richie. But Clench wouldn't give in. He bucked against Ben until he was free and pushed him to the ground. He lifted his steel-toed booted foot above Richie's shin.

"Don't you fucking dare," it was Mike's turn to speak. He'd been quietly taking his shoe off during the whole affair and now he had his dinky little knife with it's crazy sharp blade in his hand and pointed straight at Clench.

"I ain't ever let a nigger tell me what to do, and I'm sure as hell not going to start now because you have a boy scout trinket." Clench slammed his foot down.

_ "OH FUCK!!" _ There was a sickening crunch as Clench slammed his foot down on Richie's leg.

Richie's scream awoke a dormant rage that had been buried in Eddie for years. He didn't know how it'd happened, but suddenly, he had Mike's knife, which was really closer to a nail file, in his hands and was stabbing at Clench's shoulder. "Get away from him!  _ Get away from him! _ " Eddie's body seemed to be yelling. And then it wasn't. Clench was gone, but the red-coated knife was still in his hand. Mike placed his hand on Eddie's shoulder. 

"Eddie, give me the knife," and just as easy as he had apparently taken it, he returned it. In the end, they were actually lucky that Mike's knife was so shitty, otherwise Eddie would be looking at a life sentence at Shawshank. Instead, at some point during Eddie's rage, Clench had slunk away with his hand gripping his shoulder, veins seeping blood, but arteries intact. 

Then there was Richie who was lying in the alcove like a crumpled doll. "Oh my God. Richie I'm so sorry I left you. I'm  _ so _ sorry." Richie yanked his shirt down over the pink blistering letters. 

Eddie squatted to tend to him. "Jesus Christ, your eye… can you open it?" Richie strained to lift his eyelid. Bits of glass were splintered into the skin from the inner corner of his brow to the thin skin of his under-eye, the bridge of his nose was out of shape, and blood was dripping down his cheek. As he opened it, Eddie could tell that there was a shard stuck in the eye itself. Richie yelped and shut his eye tight before he'd even opened it halfway. "Uh, ok, um keep it closed…"

"We need to get him to the hospital!" cried Stan, because  _ holy shit. _

"He needs a fucking ambulance," said Bev, digging out a roll of quarters from her purse, "I'll go find a payphone."

"No!" Richie yelled. 

"Rich, you're really hurt." Eddie's tears started to well. 

"I'm  _ fine.  _ You can just pour some rubbing alcohol on me and wrap me in bandages like you always do, Eds."  _ No Richie, this isn't like those other times _ , Eddie wanted to say. Instead, he sat down and put his hands on either side of Richie's head, examining his eye. 

"I'll need some saline solution…" he looked up, "Mike will you get my fanny packs out of Bill's car?"

"Uh, Bill just left. And besides! We should really take him to a hospital. He looks  _ bad,  _ Eddie," replied Mike. 

"You wanna stop talking about me like I'm not here? Because I am. And I'm conscious. And I'm lucid. And I am choosing  _ not  _ to go the hospital because I'm an adult and that's my right. Just fucking leave, all of you. I have to relieve Kenny. He'll be playing shitty music the rest of the night if I don't."

"Ok, it's official, you've lost it Rich," said Ben, "we're not going to leave you and you're certainly not going back in the gym. The dance is practically over, you look like someone hit you in the face with a mirror, and I doubt you'd be able to even walk."

"So what are you going to do? Drag me against my will to your shitty car Ben?"

"If I have to, yeah," Ben replied, bending down to pick up Richie.

"Do not fucking touch him!" Eddie yelled, blocking Ben's arm. Richie looked at him with some strange, twisted, thankfulness. "We can't make him go if he doesn't want to." 

"Eddie, I don't what you guys were doing when you were being attacked–"

"That has nothing to do with this!" said Eddie, his face turning scarlet.

"–but Richie  _ needs _ to go to the hospital!" Bev was in the background, she'd started to let a few tears slip past. Stan was doing a shitty job stopping his as well. 

"I  _ can't  _ go!" Richie yelled, "and I'm not crazy. I got taken off of my parent's insurance when I turned eighteen. Do you know how much it costs to get fixed up? And I spent all my money on all that  _ dumb-as-shit  _ equipment." Ben backed off.

"Richie," Eddie held his hand, "We can help you with that. We're not just gonna drop you off at the ER and leave you in debt… We would never do that,  _ I  _ would never do that. Say that we don't go to the hospital. That we just go to Bill's house. I get my fanny pack, and I take care of you, that's what you want?" Richie nodded sheepishly, "But you know we can't do that. Yeah, I can wipe away the blood and wrap up your leg and even put a cold compress on your stomach–"

"There's  _ nothing  _ wrong with my stomach, I don't know what thought you saw, but it's  _ fine. _ "

"–even if I do all that," Eddie continued, "there's a shard of glass in your freaking eyeball and if slip trying to get it out you might lose the whole fucking eye. I can't handle that pressure. So, please Richie,  _ please _ just let us take you to hospital."

Richie frowned. He started to cry and the pain of his eye muscles twitching made him nearly pass out. Eddie looked at him with doe eyes. He swallowed his pride. "Okay." 

Ben helped Eddie lift him. As they did, Richie let out a whimper like a wounded animal. Eddie thought he could here Ben whisper into Richie's ear,  _ I'm sorry, Rich, I'm sorry for all of this.  _ In front of the gym, it was quite evident that the last of the students had left and the building was locked. A figure was coming towards them.

"Guh-g-gg-g-guys?" Stuttering Bill materialized with car keys in his hands and worry in his eyes. "I, uh realized I h-had Eddie's inhaler in my car, I've b-b-b-been looking for you g-g-guys for like teh-ten minutes– what's wrong with Richie?"

"Still right here…" Richie said, but his voice warbled. Had he even noticed that Bill was just now showing up?

"Bill, the seats in the station wagon go flat, right?" asked Mike.

"Uh, y-y-yeah. Why?"

"You and Bev need to push them down," Bill nodded, still looking confused, "Moira, there's two fanny packs in the front seat, I need to you to get them," Moira clucked her tongue as though she were going to disagree, but quieted and nodded her head, "and Stan, you and I will help Ben and Eddie get him in there." Everyone got into place and did their own little jobs. 

A few minutes later, Richie was lying on a towel in the back of the Oldsmobile with Eddie sitting next to him. Bill was driving and Mike was in the passenger seat. The others were on their way to meet them at the hospital in their own cars. Eddie whispered into Richie's ears as he wiped the blood off of his cheek.  _ I'm so sorry, _ he said,  _ I shouldn't have left you. _

"Eds, I can't see."

"That's because your eye got hurt."

"I know that, I'm not an idiot. I can't see because I need my glasses."

"They broke your glasses, remember?"

"Oh yeah." Eddie couldn't tell if Richie had somehow actually forgotten or if he was just fucking with him. "I  _ loved  _ those glasses. You know that?"

"Yeah, I do." 

"I know you're probably thinking that punch fucked my brain up. It didn't. The pain is just making me a little loopy." Once they'd put him in the car, The Losers had realized just how badly Clench had hurt Richie's leg. Eddie was certain it was broken. It wasn't crooked like Eddie's arm had been, but when he'd tried assessing it, the pain on Richie's face told him all he needed to know. As for his stomach, Richie refused to let Eddie lift up his shirt, even once they were alone in the back of the car. "There's a piece of glass stuck in the muscle of my eyebrow. It's gotta be hitting a nerve or something because it hurts worse than anything else. I know you've got tweezers in one of those stupid packs of yours. Please get it out."

"We'll be at the hospital soon. We're already on Main Street." That was a lie, they were still on Pasture Road, but Eddie was terrified of messing something up.

_ "Please."  _ So, Eddie found himself digging through his second fanny pack for the tweezers. His hands brushed past the old pair of glasses he'd kept, and  _ oh, would he be weirded out if he knew I had them, or just thankful to see again? _

"Richie, I have your glasses." Eddie decided that maybe it would at least keep him from digging around with the tweezers.

"You said they were broken."

"Yeah, um these are you old ones. They're kind of broken too, but they're at least taped back together." Eddie took out the ratty coke-bottles. Ever since he'd taken them, they'd been wrapped in a kerchief, but they were still broken from the thousands of times the Bowers gang had taken them. 

"You kept them?" said Richie, taking them and sticking them on his head.

"You kept an extra inhaler for me." The question must have been rhetorical, because Richie didn't respond to his answer.

"God, how small was my head? These things fucking pinch." Eddie laughed.

"I don't think your head was ever small, it just got bigger." Richie punched him playfully in the arm.  _ This is good,  _ thought Eddie,  _ he's not  _ that  _ hurt. _

"W-w-ww-we're here," Bill said, parking the car. Ben and Stan pulled in next to them.

"Bev and I will go get a nurse and they'll wheel you in." Ben said to Richie, who was still lying down, staring up at the ceiling of the car.

The next few minutes were a blur for Richie. He was in rolling in a chair, then there were ladies in scrubs triaging him. He was surrounded by his friend's faces and Eddie held his hand the entire time. The nurses decided he warranted attention and then suddenly his friends were left behind in the waiting room, only Eddie stayed with him. 


	6. Stanley Uris Makes a Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's be real: 4/7s of the Losers' Club is hopeless straight boys.

###  _ Stanley Uris Makes a Decision _

 

Moira tugged on his arm. Together, along with the rest of The Losers, they were sitting in the waiting room of Derry Home Hospital in full prom regalia. The beautiful Moira Berlinsky, in a fish-scale green mermaid gown, was Stanley Uris' date and girlfriend of two years. His friends all assumed that he was 'getting some' but no, he wasn't. And it was his choice, too. He and Moira had decided together to wait for their wedding night. 

They'd met in '90, when she'd moved to Derry and joined Stan's synagogue. Moira had come from New York City and moved with her family for  _ God only knows _ what reasons to this shit town. He'd admired her from across the pews but hadn't talked to her until one day she'd been cornered by Joey Ricketts. Ricketts, strung out, had called her a 'kike-bitch' and put his hand up her skirt. Then came Stan "The Man" Uris.  _ Her hero _ . 

They'd fallen in love in the quick and unthinking way teenagers tend to do. They'd already planned to marry after high-school, too. But by the time they were sat next to each other like two terrified dolls in the ER, unbeknownst to either of them, there was only thirty minutes left in their relationship.

"Stan…" she tugged on his arm again. " _ Stan, _ " she got his attention. "Stan, I thought we were going to go to a party." 

"Moira, baby," he kissed her nose, ignoring the five sets of rolling eyes behind them, "We  _ are  _ gonna go to a party, but you saw how bad Richie was hurt. It might take a while."

"It's almost midnight. What if Bill doesn't want to have the party anymore?" Neither Stan nor Moira had ever really gone to a high school party and both were desperate to do so before graduation. 

"The p-pp-party is still on. I p-put pretzels out and everything," said Bill from a few chairs down. Moira was miffed that he'd cut into their conversation. 

"I thought you said it would be a  _ real  _ party, not some kiddy party," she stage-whispered to Stan who flushed with embarrassment. 

"Fuck off, Moira," said Bev. She'd been ringing her hands from nerves since they'd gotten to the hospital. The doctor said they might have to take out Richie's eye and you're worried about a  _ party? _ " 

That shut Moira up for a minute. Then, feeling picked on and generally unhappy, she said: "Are you guys just going to pretend you didn't see Richard's stomach?" That  _ was _ what they had been planning on doing. "It said F-A-G-O and I'm pretty sure they were planning on adding a T."

"Yeah?" countered Beverly, face heating up with rage, "Do you have something to say about that?"

"Maybe I do," Stan grabbed her arm, trying to dissuade her, "don't touch me, Stan! Your friends have never liked me and now they're gonna treat me like the bad guy for telling the truth! Well here it is: Richard is a homosexual and we all know it. Does that mean those guys should've treated him like that? No. But you are treating him like he's  _ normal _ . And I'm sorry but homosexuality is a  _ to'eivah _ . That means it's wicked and it should not be rewarded. It says so in The Torah!" The Losers around her were stunned silent. "Stan! Back me up on this!"

"Moira…" he didn't know what to say. He settled on this: "You're making a scene."

"That's all you're gonna say, Stan?" Bev said, standing up. "You've been friends with Richie since elementary school and you're not going to defend him?" She looked at the rest of her friends. Bill, Mike,  _ Ben _ … all of them sat staring at their hands. "What about you guys? You're all going to turn on Richie? And for what? He was  _ assaulted!  _ Even if he is gay, that's his business! Does that really change the way you think of him?" Ben looked up and looked like he was going to say something, but he didn't. "I don't believe this shit. I'm going to the parking lot for a smoke break. Don't come talk to me unless there's news. I can't believe you guys." She got up and left. 

"Bev, wait!" Ben said, mustering the courage to get up and follow the clicks of her pumps.

With Bev gone, Moira felt emboldened. "At least you guys agree with me." She paced the small waiting area. Stan was now sitting with his head in his hands.

Mike was the first to break the silence. "I'm a Christian, but Richie's always been good to me…" That was an understatement. Richie was always there for them all, but Mike'd never actually even  _ met  _ a gay person, at least that he'd known about. His church never said anything against homosexuals, but they really never said anything  _ about  _ them either. He knew the old testament was against it, but didn't Jesus abolish the old law? All he knew about being gay could be summed up by these three words: Leviticus, AIDS, Falcon. 

"M-m-mm-me t-tt-too," Bill spat out. He'd always secretly known that Eddie was gay, and he'd always been okay with the idea. In his catalogue of friends, Eddie being gay was just the same as Bev having red hair. But  _ Richie?  _ All the sleep-overs they'd had, the friendly claps on the back… all those things didn't feel so innocent anymore. Richie Tozier had always been the ladies man. He hated to admit it, but Bev had been right: it  _ did  _ change the way he thought about him. In a strange sort of way, he felt betrayed. He'd always told Rich about his own romantic interests, in fact, for whatever reason, Richie was the only one he felt completely comfortable talking to about Bev. How could he not have noticed this? How could Richie not just  _ tell  _ him? Bill'd never picked on gay folk, he never picked on anyone at all. Out of the whole group, Bill was the only one to have never said  _ nigger  _ or  _ cunt  _ or  _ kike  _ or  _ faggot _ , it wasn't in his nature to say such words, not even as a joke or a reference to something someone else had said. Bill'd always thought he was a guy you could trust with anything. But then, why did he feel sick thinking about Trashmouth Tozier taking it up the ass?  _ I'm not that guy, _ he thought to himself,  _ I can't let myself be that guy. _ "M-Moira, I d-d-don't want you at my p-p-party if you're g-g-g-guh-gonna say things like that."

"Fine!" Moira huffed and gathered her purse. "Stan! Let's go."

Stan. Stan. Stan the Man.  _ Wasn't Richie the one who gave me that nickname? _

For the son of a Rabbi, he didn't know The Torah very well. He wasn't sure if Moira was right about it or not. But he was sure that Richie was the only one who'd come to his Bar Mitzvah. And his dad had a framed picture of Resnicoff in his office. If Resnicoff said being gay was fine, that probably meant his dad thought it was fine. Wouldn't they know better than Moira? So why did Stan walk out with her? In the parking lot, Bev, who was making up with Ben, glared at him as he opened his passenger door for Moira. He tried to wave at her as if to say,  _ no I don't what the fuck I'm doing either.  _

The car ride was silent. At least it was on Stan's end; Moira was fuming.  _ Can you believe that?  _ she said.  _ I know you think he's your friend, but you really shouldn't be around people like that.  _ Eventually, Stan found himself parked in front of the Berlinsky home. 

"Stan, are you even listening?" he nodded. "So do you think we should do it?"

"What?" he supposed he'd been tuning her out.

"You know… I know we said we'd wait, but it's still prom night and this way we can make it a good memory again. My parents are heavy sleepers, they wouldn't even know."

Silence. For a second, Stan entertained the thought of sneaking upstairs and losing his virginity. Instead, he said, "Why'd you stay all that stuff, M?"

"Beg pardon?"

"About Richie. You shouldn't have said that stuff. How would you feel if someone burned the word ki-"

"Don't you  _ dare _ finish that sentence," her face was pale in horror. "Being Jewish and being a homosexual are two completely different things, please tell me you know that!"

"I don't think I do. Or at least I don't think the difference matters. Kids used to beat me up and steal my kippah. Sometimes hey still do. I've been called a ki–  _ that word _ , more times than I can count and I know you have too. Richie stood by me through all of that. Even when we were mad at each other, Richie's always been there."

"So what are you saying? That you're  _ like _ him?" Stan wasn't. He'd never been intensively interested in sex, but whenever he did think of it, he always pictured a woman. Moira, usually. 

"Get out of my car, please." He stared through the windshield as he said this, hands gripping the steering wheel and he thought he might cry. He loved Moira, he really,  _ really  _ did. She wasn't always like this. She was normally all smiles and innocent giggles and  _ smart _ . God, she was smarter than anyone else he knew.  _ So why is she being so stupid about this? _

"Fine." She got out and slammed the door so hard that Stan was worried she might have damaged it. "If you drive away – and I mean this – if you drive away, we are over."

He drove. He steeled himself, wiped his eyes, and sniffed his nose. He drove to Bill's house, but the driveway was empty. He sat in his car and said a  _ Mi Shebeirach.  _ He prayed to God for Richie to keep his eye and for himself to be forgiven. 

He got out of his car and went into Bill's house. For many years now he'd had copy of the key. All The Losers had all each other's keys because they were friends and they loved and trusted each other. At least they were supposed to.

Still, Stan figured they'd be bringing Richie there, party or not. It was common knowledge that Richie's parents were neglective and often absent completely. In short, Richie would be needing support tonight. If the burn was as bad as it looked, Richie would probably be spending the rest of his life with a brand of a misspelled and incomplete slur:  _ fago. _

Stan went to the linen closet and pulled out some blankets and pillows. In the living room, he set up the couch for Richie. He put a glass of Gatorade on the coffee table.  _ Do injured people need electrolytes, or is that just sick people? Better safe than sorry _ . He pulled a Snack Pack out of the fridge and laid some of the pretzels Bill had put out in a napkin and placed them next to the glass. He looked back at the nest he'd set up. It wasn't very impressive. Stan sighed and poured himself some soda. 

At exactly one in the morning, Bill pulled in front of his house, Ben not far behind him. 

Mike, Ben, and Bev got out of their respective cars as Bill popped the trunk. Eddie was lying next to Richie who was now wearing an eyepatch, cotton stuffed up his nostrils, a temporary cast, and a swath of bandages around his abdomen. Together, they'd mustered up $240 in cash and quarters and Eddie had paid an extra $200 on his emergency credit card.  _ "Don't do that Eds, your mom will kill you,"  _ Richie'd said. Eddie's fear of his mother waxed and waned with the moon. As he'd handed over the credit card, however, there was no hesitation. The bill left over was a bit over $700, even after Richie's refusal of pain meds. They'd just have to worry about paying later. 

"What's Stan doing here?" asked Richie. When he and Eddie had reemerged to the waiting room, Stan and Moira's absence had raised questions. The group hadn't really wanted to answer and Bev eventually just told them that Stan and Moira had called it a night. No one had mentioned the fact that Richie's dress shirt was stained with blood and pus in the vague shape of  _ the word _ and that there was bulge from the thick layers of gauze. Neither Eddie nor Richie were sure where they stood with the rest of the group, but the fact that Stan had left wasn't a great sign. 

"Muh-m-maybe he wants to apologize?" offered Bill.

"He better," Bev said, still pissed.

The hospital had given Richie crutches (or rather had charged them $30 for them), so The Losers didn't need to carry him anymore, but they all hovered around him as he made his way to the house, scared he might fall. 

Stan met them at the door. "Shit man!" he said, staring at the eye patch. "They really fucking took your eye out?!"

"Nay, matey," Richie answered, pulling off his ill-fitting glasses and flipping up the patch to reveal a mangled mess that still, thankfully, contained his eyeball. "They say I'll even be able to see out if it again once the swelling goes down. Aren't I just the  _ luckiest? _ " he pushed Stan aside with his crutch. 

"Oh, um I set up the couch for you…" he gestured lamely to the nest. 

"Are you sure you didn't set it up for you and Moira? Where's she anyway? I thought you to would be in motel room by now."

Stan's eyes got watery. "She's not here. We broke up. She said some… things about you and I didn't agree with them." 

Richie ignored Stan and hobbled past him. Eddie rushed to help him onto the couch. 

"Ss-s-so, let's g-get this p-party started?" Bill said, rubbing his arms. He put in a tape and 'Africa' started playing. "Anyone want a p-pretzel?" 

The group stood awkwardly, not dancing, just staring at Eddie holding Richie's hand on the couch. 

" _ Geez _ this is awkward," said Rich, "Eddie, my loyal subject, would you do some things for me?"

"Uh, yeah Richie. Whatever you need," Eddie looked up with tired doe eyes. 

"Great. First, pop that tape out and put it down the garbage disposal. Then bring me Bill's tape collection, he's gotta have something better than this shit. I may be all fucked up, but I am  _ not _ giving up on this night," Eddie stood up, put Toto IV in its case and picked out fifteen tapes to bring Richie. "Okay, now Stan. I don't what the fuck happened with Moira, but you look guilty as hell. Go get my bong. There should be a whole ziploc of weed next to it too."

"Uh, you know we're at Bill's house, right?" Stan said scratching his head.

"He k-k-keeps a b-backup here, I'll show you w-w-where," answered Bill. Bill and Rich were long time smoking buddies. Weed let Bill escape his stutter and it let Richie just  _ escape.  _

The two returned with the bong, the bag of weed, and more miscellaneous drug paraphernalia than Stan had ever seen in his life. 

"Holy shit, Bill since when were you stoner?" Ben asked. They all got a little stoned sometimes, but apparently Bill was doing some extra credit. He dragged out some fans and put them on blast.

"Oh our Billy Boy is  _ quiiite  _ the junkie! Yes indeedy!" Richie said, apparently workshopping a new voice. "Now hook me up, because in case you don't remember I just suffered through a hour of apathetic nurses, overpriced doctors, and need I remind you,  _ no fucking pain-killers. _ If I don't have my bong in one hand and a lighter in the other in the next minute I might stop being so cool about all of this."

They obliged. Bill busied himself by rolling up some joints for the rest of them. Even Eddie took a hit. 

Once Richie was glazy-eyed and Neil Young was playing he spoke: "Alright," he cleared his voice, "so, I'm a fag." He announced this with an impossible air of casualness and Eddie's reddening eyes shot wide, as if to say  _ no, I'm not ready. _ The rest of the group sat, each more shocked than the next. "What? You guys honestly have no reaction to that?" Silence, silence, silence. Suddenly, Richie pulled up his shirt and ripped off the bandages. "This is me! Richie the Amazing Fag-o! Made immortal in my own flesh! I know you guys saw so you can stop playing coy," he traced the hot swollen letters as Eddie cringed. "Think it'll hurt my chances with the ladies?" he guffawed.

"Richie…" Bev started, her big blue eyes like a lake swollen with overflow. "It's fine if you're gay, but you don't need to call yourself that."

"It's my mouth and if want to chug dick and call myself a fag, then that's what I'll do." He took another hit and puffed a fat ring of smoke in the air.. 

Eddie started to cry, just as he had after they'd first kissed. "I told you this would happen Richie,  _ I told you."  _ And for the first time, Richie noticed the two-square inches of missing hair from where Clench had grabbed him of his lap. The side of his face that'd been thrown into the brick was turning a sickly blue. No one had really paid any attention to Eddie with Richie's injuries being as bad as they were. He wanted desperately to hold Eds in his arm and cry with him. Even if he'd been able to with his leg all janked up, he doubted Eddie would've welcomed it. 

"So you guys are..?" Mike trailed off, not sure if that was a question he should be asking after all.

"Yeah," Eddie said, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. He looked at Richie as if to say _what_ are we _?_ _We sure didn't have time to discuss it. But we've known each other since we can both remember and it seems that we've liked each other for a long time, too. Sure, we haven't even been on a date, but the way he kissed me…_ Fuck it. "We're boyfriends."

Somehow, that was what caused Richie to shed his first tear of the night. The pain must've been really getting to him. "We are?"

"Well yeah,"  _ Oh God _ , had Eddie somehow miscalculated? "If that's you want, I mean."

"Eds, I've been in love with you since seventh grade." Richie briefly wondered if the punch had really landed him in a coma, or if he'd smoked way more than he thought.  _ No.  _ Eddie's hand on his was too real. Richie pulled Eddie up onto the couch with him. "If any you guys have a problem with this, you better fucking bring it up now," he said, pointing to the rest of the group "because I am not losing my friends over unspoken concerns."

"I don't speak for everyone, but I'm happy for you two." Bev's popped her joint out of her mouth to speak. 

"Me too," Bill seconded, stutter calmed by the wheelchair weed. 

"Same here," added Stan and Ben in unison. 

"Stan?" Bev jabbed her elbow into his ribs. 

"I'm happy if you guys are happy. Just don't discuss your sex—" Mike started.

"Finish that sentence and I'll deepthroat the whole goddamn chamber of this thing," said Richie holding up the bong. 

Eddie blushed deeper than anyone had ever seen him. "My boyfriend everybody!" he gave an awkward grin. 

"Now that everything's out in the open, can I put Africa back on?" Bill said, already headed to the tape deck. 

"No! Eddie you should've smashed it when we had the chance!" yelled Richie, Eddie rolling his eyes. "If you've gotta take Neil out, there's a mixtape next to where I keep my spare clothes. Go get it Bill before I have to show everyone my eye to guilt-trip you all. Once you've got it in, skip to track four." 

 

_ Bop, bop, ba b-do Bop, bop, ba b-do Bop, bop, ba b-do _

_ Cold fire… you've got everything but cold fire… _

 

"Prom is officially b-back on!" declared Bill, bringing out the Evan Williams and filling everyone's cup.

"To pretty boys and big fat bong rips!" cried Richie.

"Here, here!" replied Eddie and Bev in unison. Bill, Ben, Stan, and Mike raised their glasses, eyes wide. Seven glasses tipped to the air.  


	7. Ben Hanscom Gets Undressed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags. Heed them.

 

###  _ Ben Hanscom Gets Undressed _

 

Ben's stomach was fucked. Under his shirt, there were three ropey scars from the cast iron rod that had swung from It's broken face and across the skin of his abdomen. The memory of this floated strangely in Ben's head. He remembered it (Derry would probably never let him forget as long as he lived in the shit town) as something that fluctuated between fact and fiction. Fact. Fiction. Fact. Fiction. 

_ (Fact!) _

In his head, the summer of '89 went something like this:  _ I'm Ben Hanscom and when I was thirteen I made friends for the first time. Together, we rode our bikes, and swam in our underwear, and listened to the radio. We also defeated a primordial being of evil that disguised itself as a clown. Of course, of course.  _

It was the other scar, however, that left clear and concise memories of hurt and fear. Now, Ben looked in Bill's bathroom mirror. He hiked up his dress shirt and traced a silver scar in the shape of an "H." Silver, like the cartwheel silver dollars he kept in his pockets; Silver, like Bill's bike; Silver like Bev's eyes in the moonlight. Silver like a shapeshifting monster's clown suit.  _ Fuck.  _ Henry Bowers was the other being of evil that had left its mark on Ben's stomach that summer. He'd been mean and crazy, but now he was D-E-A-D, you bet your fur. Fell down a well he did, and forgotten so fast that sometimes it seemed that his initial carved on Ben's belly was the only proof that there ever really was a kid named Henry Bowers. Seeing Richie being branded like that had tripped some hair-trigger deep within him. He'd never admit it, but having Clench's neck tight in a headlock had made him feel  _ strong  _ and  _ good. _ He didn't just feel like he was just protecting Rich, but also himself. For a second, it wasn't his friend that had been cowering on the ground, but it'd been his thirteen-year-old self. 

Back in those days, Ben wasn't handsome. He'd been  _ a lard-ass, butterball, fat motherfucker; a cottage-cheese, Hamburger Helper, tubby piece-of-shit.  _ The weight hadn't just melted like most people assumed. Oh, no. After Bev left, Ben cleaned up his act. He'd given away half his lunches to Richie, who always happily ate food whenever he was presented with it (everyone knew his parents didn't keep the pantry stocked.) Most days, he'd scrape another quarter into the toilet. He'd started working out in the privacy of his bedroom until he lost enough weight to be confident enough to go on runs. Sophomore year he started lifting a bit, too. He never got bulky or anything, but it'd helped to give him a bit of tone and tighten his loosening skin. In the mirror, Ben's reflection took a pinch of what remained of the extra skin. By his senior year, Ben'd lost enough weight that the shirts he wore as a thirteen-year-old would hang loose over his eighteen-year-old body. So, it was no wonder his skin hadn't snapped back into place. 

Once, in the summer of '92, he'd been swimming with his friends in the quarry and Richie'd called him "Scrotum Stomach." The rest of The Losers had  _ beep-beeped _ him so quick that Ben didn't have time to throw a punch, but he still thought about that name as he looked in the mirror. 

_ Yup, my stomach is sure fucked alright.  _ He could feel the summation of all the feelings from the night rushing through his veins all at once. In a second they all cooled into one: nervousness. 

Downstairs, the rest of the guys were asleep. Richie and Eddie were spooning on the couch, Mike and Stan had their heads lolled to the side in their own armchairs, and Big Bill was curled in on himself like a lapdog in the loveseat. They were all sweetly stoned, slightly drunk, and sleeping harder than they had for a long time. Ben and Bev had been the last ones awake by the time Ben's Timex read 3:30 am. It'd been Bev's idea to go upstairs. Bill's room was locked, and so was Georgie's (although that door was  _ always _ locked.) As if this wasn't deterrent enough, Bill'd made it clear that if anyone was to sneak off, as he put it, they'd  _ b-b-better not g-get c-cum on my sh-shit.  _ So, guestroom it was. Ben and Bev had fallen onto to the bed together, kissing each other through the four years and hazy memories that separated them. Bev'd put her hand on Ben's buttons when he'd abruptly got up and went to the bathroom.  _ "I–I've gotta take a piss!"  _ he'd said, leaving Bev confused and humored.

And now, he was here, standing in front of the full-length mirror on the back of Big Bill's bathroom door looking at himself and pinching his stomach. He steeled himself and tucked his shirt back in, patting his hands on the fabric against his torso. He examined his face, realizing that this was quite possibly the last time he would be seeing himself as a virgin. And boy did that scare him to the dickens. 

Objectively, he knew that he was handsome. Some time between sophomore and junior year, when the weight really started getting controlled, girls started noticing him, but Ben had never responded much to the attention. Sure, the girls thought he was good-looking, but they only ever saw him clothed. He was sure that as soon as he took his shirt off, they'd laugh and point and tell their friends all about Scrotum Stomach Ben. And so, at age eighteen, Ben Hanscom had done nothing more than kiss a girl. Tonight was different, even if there'd been plenty of girls who would never do much as think of doing something so cruel, Ben  _ knew  _ that Bev wouldn't. Bev wanted  _ him,  _ not just his body. She'd whispered as much into his ear as they'd kissed on the guestroom bed.  _ You're kind and brave and you were the first one to pounce on that 'Clench' kid.  _ And God Almighty did Ben want to be with Bev, too. He breathed and returned to the bedroom.

Beverly was sitting upright on the bed fiddling with the clasp on her pearls and patted the space next to her for Ben to sit on. "We don't have to do anything you know…" she said, looking at him with her big blue eyes as if she could read every fear off of Ben's face.

"It's not that I don't  _ want  _ to…" he started steadily. "Maybe I'm not sure  _ how?  _ Not to sound lame or anything, but I don't really have that much experience."

"It's okay," she blushed and looked down, "I'm a virgin, too." She spoke this as a fact, but somewhere deep in her mind a fog was clearing that told her  _ you're lying.  _ Her hands nervously played with the tulle of her dress. "Let's just start as we were."

Bev cupped Ben's face and kissed him softly and deeply. Together, they fell back onto the bed. Bev straddled his hips and undid his bowtie. When she began to play with the buttons of his shirt again, Ben got nervous.  _ Now or never Haystacks, _ he thought to himself as his heart raced; his hands felt numb at his sides. She kissed a trail from his chin down to the uneven texture of his stomach. She thumbed over the scar tissue of the 'H' – a little part of her in the back of her brain remembered the day he got the scar. How casual it had seemed through the eyes of children, but now as a young adult, Bev could feel the grown-up truths of  _ all  _ their scars. Ben kept his eyes closed and his muscles tense as Bev kissed the scar. 

"Do you love me, Ben?" she asked.

"Beverly Marsh, I love you wholly and completely." How easy it was for him to say that to a girl he hadn't seen in years, but it was so utterly true. His senses still lit up like they had in eighth grade social studies, before he and Bev had ever even talked. To him, she was everything. 

"Ben… there's a lot of stuff I don't remember," her eyes looked incredibly doll-like as she bent over him, still straddling his torso, "I don't know why I don't remember, but sometimes I think I might've lived in Portland all my life and that Derry was just a dream. Sometimes, I can't even remember what my dad's name was. I just have bits and pieces of my life before; left-over emotions, not specific events. I'm not sure how to explain it." She rolled over and laid next to him. Ben turned his head so that they were face to face. "Sometimes the things I remember seem to be made up, or something out of horror movie… I don't know when all of this started, maybe when I stopped seeing you guys." She said, knowing it'd started earlier. Maybe before she even left Derry. In fact, the memories started to fade just as

_ Soon as Ben's lips left Bev's in the sewer. Reality flickered like a half-screwed-in light bulb. Sewers, they were in the  _ sewers _. Of course. And then Bill put a bolt through the clown's –  _ the really real clown's  _ – forehead. One bolt, between its eyes like a cow in the slaughterhouse and then it was action time. The beast changed its face in manic desperation to scare them; to weaken them. But they would not falter. Not when It vomited all over Eddie's face; not when burning hands raged from Its mouth at Mike; not when the bandages of Its mummified face grabbed Ben; not when It showed the warped face of the Modigliani portrait to Stan; not when the whole clown getup made Richie want to piss his pants. And not when Alvin Marsh's slimy fucking face popped out of the clown suit and called Beverly his little girl.  _

(She killed him once; she killed him again.)

_ She shoved a rod up its throat and It crawled down Its hole and evaporated before Bill could land another hit.  _ Bev _ had been the one to deliver the deathblow and then it was gone; gone like the light.  _ Gone _. From that moment on, they were no longer children. She almost wanted to do "womanly things" with them to unite them into adulthood; to spite her father. But then, Bill had fallen to his knees with Georgie's slicker in his hands and they were all hugging him, in a bundle of the love between them all: chaste and beautiful and child-like.  _

_ A month later, when they gathered for the last time before Bev left. She told them what she'd seen in The Lights. By then, so much had faded. She talked about seeing them all together again: old and reunited. She said she didn't remember much, and it was partly true, but that day, before they'd cut their palms, there was a lot she  _ did _ remember from The Lights. She remembered seeing herself, forty years old and married to her father. As she kissed Bill before leaving, she could see the face of Tom Rogan in her mind like an itching premonition. But she kept silent, burying the fear of the future inside. She'd figured that seeing her future meant she'd be able to change it. But nearly four years later, with her sweet Ben lying next to her  _

She remembered nothing. Not Alvin; not Tom. Not what happened to her, nor what  _ would  _ happen to her. _ Gone.  _

"But for whatever reason, when I saw that postcard you sent me, so much that was lost in my mind came back. Good things. I remembered Bill and Richie and Eddie and Mike and Stan and  _ you _ . That silly postcard, I read it and held it against my chest and I  _ remembered.  _ Between all the fun and fear of tonight little snippets came back to me. Talking to you on the last day of school, swimming in the quarry, you kissing me. But I've been remembering bad things too. Or at least I think I might be. Again, I'm not sure how to explain it, but so many memories of that summer are just of how I felt. It's like my heart remembers even though my head doesn't." She pinched the bridge of her nose. Ben wasn't quite sure how to respond to all of it.

"Something did happen to us that summer, Bev. I remember all of it, and I think the rest of the guys do too, but we don't talk about it. You're right, it seems like a bad movie. But you're not crazy. What happened… it was supernatural. There was a creature and It killed Bill's brother," silent tears rolled down Bev's cheek as Ben spoke, the light of forgotten moments flashing, "It killed a lot of other kids, too. But  _ we  _ killed  _ It.  _ And now it's gone and we don't have to be scared anymore. I don't pretend to know what it was, but I know it had some sort of grip on Derry. Maybe you escaped that grip when you left. I hope you did, because that'll mean the rest of us will be free when go off after graduation. It's  _ good  _ that you forgot. And besides, you remember us now, that's what matters. All the bad things that happened to us can never surmount what we found in each other; what I found in you. I meant it when I said I love you." He put his arms around her and his body curled against hers. He was only vaguely aware that his shirt was open.

"I love you too, Ben." She kissed him. "I want to be with you." That feeling of being hugged by all The Losers in the sewer returned to her. It was the indescribable feeling of uncorrupted love and comfort and _understanding_. But now, as an eighteen-year-old, she felt that she was truly ready to do womanly things. Not out of triumph or spite, but out of love. She placed her arms in Ben's hair and kissed him with a warmth she'd never felt. She straddled him again and Ben sat up as she pushed his jacket and unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders completely. His fears and insecurities melted as she caressed his bare back. _Love you; love you._

Ben undid her zipper as Bev continued caressing him. The metal teeth felt like kisses now. She lifted her arms up as Ben helped the dress over her head. She threw the garment to the floor and then they were both shirtless. They couldn't help but laugh together as their bare chests touched.  _ We are here, this is us: Ben and Bev, and we are real.  _ Ben flipped her and now, with growing confidence, he was the one doing the straddling. He traced her nipples and they hardened under his fingertips. As he kissed them, she let out a soft gasp and felt the cotton of her underwear wetten. Her hands went to his belt. The clinking of the metal buckle rang a bell in her that made her hands tingle.  _ Push it back.  _  She threw the strip of leather next to her crumpled dress. She helped him awkwardly worm his way out of his trousers. Bev could tell he was hard through his underwear. 

Nervousness returned, but she didn't say anything. Instead, she laughed. "Take off your socks before I change my mind about this." He laughed too, as he got off her to peel off the socks. "Better," she said, still smiling. 

When his feet were bare, she noticed she was slightly shaking and a wild thought flashed through her mind:  _ he could grab me by the hair and shove my mouth so far down his cock that my nose would be crushed against his pubic bone and I wouldn't be able to do anything but choke. What if I say no and he doesn't listen? What if I want to say no and can't find my voice? _ The rational part of her mind piped up:  _ No. That's ridiculous. Ben would never hurt me.  _ Where  _ did I get that notion? _ The fact that she didn't know scared her more than the previous thoughts had. 

Ben, unaware of the tornado in Bev's mind, kissed the blond downy hair of her stomach. Her muscles relaxed when she realized he was making no move towards making her go down on him, quite the opposite, in fact. 

"Can I..?" he asked, his fingers hooking the band of her underwear. Bev released a breath and nodded, the fear evaporating as she realized his intention. Ben placed his head between her legs and then there was pleasure. He was obviously inexperienced, but Bev's heart flew and her hands grasped the sheets as his tongue suddenly hit  _ that  _ place. Like most teenagers, Bev had found out what she liked through self-exploration, so she was quick to say  _ "Right there!"  _ Her right hand left the sheets and buried itself in Ben's hair. Her heart hammered against her chest as she climaxed, leg muscles tightening and hips bucking softly against Ben's chin. She felt fizzy from the tip of her nose down to her toes. She felt like a bird. 

"Ben Hanscom," she said, regaining her breath, "you get up here and kiss me." He did as he was told with a dorky smile on his face, confidence puffing his chest.  _ 'Ol Haystack made Beverly Marsh come on his first try. Who'd've thunk?  _ Bev's legs were weak as she made her way to Ben's own underwear. She released him from the straining fabric. "I want to make you feel as good as you just made me feel." Bev dropped her head against the pillow, still high off her orgasm. "Do you have a condom?" she asked, now certain that they would indeed be needing one.

Ben hopped off the bed, naked and hard, and got a foil packet from his wallet. He remounted the bed, cock bobbing, and Bev smiled lopsidedly at the sight. Ben started to open the packet, but Bev took it. "Here, let me," she whispered and rolled the condom up his length.  

As Ben guided himself into her, she realized that all the times she'd masturbated, she'd never put anything  _ in.  _ Bar a few exploratory moves with her fingers when she was younger, she put her focus completely on the external. In fact, she couldn't recall the last time anything other than a tampon had been  _ inside _ , and even they were often uncomfortable for her. Inserting tampons made her so disagreeable that if she wasn't so put off by her menstrual blood, she would opt for pads instead. Then Ben was  _ in  _ and her blood went hot. 

_ (No, no, no. I don't want it in. I don't want  _ anything _ in.) _

Her breathing hitched, but Ben must've thought it was out of pleasure because he started to speed up. Suddenly, Bev's chest got tight and her throat constricted.  _ Just say 'no' Bev. Say it!  _ But she couldn't find her voice. Her body went stiff and tears collected in her eyes and suddenly it wasn't her beautiful Ben on top of her, it was her

_ "Dad!" Bev yelled to the apartment as she threw her backpack down. "Daddy, are you home?" _

_ Alvin Marsh walked out from the living room, his work boots thudding against the ground. "Bevvie, what did I tell you about yelling in the house?" he asked crooking his neck like a crow. Ever since her mom died, Bev's father's mannerisms had become cold and oddly calculated.  _

_ "I'm sorry Daddy, it's just that I've got my report card and I wanted to show you." She handed him a manilla folder with her grades inside. He opened it and she pointed to the middle of the page, "See here, I got two A's this year. One in English and one in Art. Miss Jennifer says I can draw sunflowers better than anyone else in my grade." _

_ "And what grade is that again?" he said, not looking at the report. _

_ "Fifth grade, Daddy. Only it's summer now, so I guess that means I'm technically a sixth grader now." _

_ "You're really getting older Bevvie. Huh." He put the paper down on the ironing board next to the pile of pants Beverly had pressed for him. "Why don't we sit down, sweetie?" _

_ Bev followed him to the living room and sat next to him on the couch. The TV was on, playing that stupid baby program with the clown. "You like this show, right Bevvie?" _

_ "Well I used to Daddy... " she said carefully, scared to upset him. "I think maybe I'm a little too old for it now though." Alvin's eyes grew dark. _

_ " _ I _ like this show. You're never too old for clowns." Beverly felt strange when her dad said that, and she made a move to get up, but Alvin grabbed her bicep before she was on her feet. "Why don't you sit on my lap?" There it was. Cold glares, she could handle. Harsh scoldings, she could sit through. Whuppins, she could take like a champ. But now, after eleven years of getting used to her dad's mean treatment, his sudden urge to  _ touch  _ her, left her with no idea how to respond. But she saw other girl's daddies hug them and put them on their laps, so it was normal, right? Greta Keene's daddy hugged her everyday when he picked her up from school. Sure her own dad had always been the opposite of affectionate, but after his wife's passing, it was possible he was softening. "You're not too old to sit on your daddy's lap, are you?" _

_ "Uh, no daddy." His authority frightened her, but she also desperately wanted his attention; she wanted his love. So, she place herself on the end of his lap, sitting far nearer his knees than his groin. Then, she heard the clinking of his belt buckle _

(her hands on Ben's belt)

_ and she was scared that her dad had seen the 'C' in Science she'd been trying to conceal and that she was going to get a rap on her knuckles and a whip to the butt. But no, her daddy kept a special belt with the buckle removed for giving whuppins. The fact that he was taking off his perfectly nice and wearable one scared her all the more. Then came the zip _

(metal teeth kissed her back)

_ and Alvin's hands grabbed her wrists tight.  _

_ "Daddy, let go." She said, trying to get up. _

_ "Don't worry Bevvie, I'm not gonna hurt you. You said you were too old to watch TV with your daddy, so I've thought up another activity for us to do together." The room was too hot; the room was too cold. "Let me help you take off your dress Bevvie." _

_ And then, her face was pushed into the couch and her panties were yanked down around her ankles. Her father was  _ in  _ her and all she saw was the woman on the TV yelling: "Make it a great day!"  _

_ "Bev!" yelled Alvin. _

"Bev!" yelled Ben, "Bev, are you okay?! Did I do something?" Upon feeling her muscles tense, he quickly rolled off her and shook her shoulders, but she didn't respond. Her eyes seemed almost as hazy and bright as they had been when she'd been floating. 

Suddenly, all of Beverly Marsh’s timelines came crashing and colliding into a single moment. She was being fucked by her father, choked by Tom, kissed by Ben – all at once. And those lights, those  _ fucking  _ lights lit up her mind. She was an infant, a girl, a woman, and a corpse all at once. She remembered reading  _ Slaughterhouse Five _ in her junior year and thought that maybe Vonnegut had been onto something. She was unstuck in time. 

"I lied! Ben, I lied to you!" she cried, head pounding with heat and light. He gathered her into his arms and cried with her. He held her in his lap, penis long softened and condom discarded. Confusion and fear took up all the space in his body as he held Bev's sobbing form. 

"Bev… Bevvie, what's wrong–"

"Don't call me that!" She pushed herself out of his embrace. "Don't  _ ever  _ call me that!"

"Beverly." He was scared now, truly terrified.  "I don't know what I did." Beverly didn't respond, she just threw her face into the pillow, choking on tears. 

_ What happened?  _ they both thought. Ben kept his distance, watching her from the end of the bed. Slowly, the sobs turned to weeps that turned to sniffles that turned to silent tears rolling hot down her cheeks. By the time she was able to talk, Ben had draped a blanket over her naked form and put his pants and shirt back on. "I'm so sorry Beverly, I didn't mean to hurt you."

"It wasn't you Ben. It wasn't you…" she said bringing her face up, the tear tracks seemed to glow. 

Her timelines fell together, bringing her back into one spot in time: May 9th, 1993, 4:48 am. The memories were back, all lit like a candle being reflected in a tunnel of mirrors. For this moment, everything was as clear as it had been when she'd seen The Lights. "You were right. What happened to us… it was supernatural. I remember now. It showed me the Deadlights, Ben. At the house on Neibolt Street, I looked into It's  _ soul.  _ It wanted me to be scared again and so it showed me  _ everything.  _ I saw the moment Earth formed and the moment Earth will collapse. I saw everything being born and I saw everything dying. I saw the threads of reality being wound on a turtle's back. I saw myself as  _ God  _ and I was just a girl. All because this  _ thing  _ wanted me to be scared." She was now next to Ben on the edge of the mattress, holding the blanket tight against her chest. "But it didn't work. I saw the creation and destruction of  _ everything  _ and I wasn't scared."

"Beverly…" Ben's fear compressed itself, and for a split second, he wasn't scared  _ for _ her, but rather, he was scared  _ of _ her. 

"It wasn't what killed my dad.  _ I  _ killed him." That was the first time she ever spoke it out loud and suddenly, it made it real. She'd killed her father. She'd snapped his neck with a heavy porcelain toilet tank cover. "When I said that I'd lied to you, I meant it. Now I'm going to tell you something that I've never told anyone and I need to know that you'll still love me after I tell you."

Ben's eyes were wide like a doe's, but still so incredibly brave and trusting. He was no longer scared. Looking at Bev, he could remember pulling her out of the air and wondering what exactly had happened _.  _ And now, years on, she was telling him. "Wholly and completely, Bev. I will  _ always  _ love you: wholly and completely." He placed his hand tentatively on hers, she grasped it with loving surety. 

"I wasn't a virgin. When I said that I was, I didn't mean to lie. I lost my virginity when I was eleven, on the first day of summer break before sixth grade. My dad pushed me onto our couch and fucked me like I was an inflatable doll. I forgot all about it." Ben's heart clenched in his chest. He didn't know what to say, didn't know if there was anything he  _ could  _ say. But Bev just continued:

"When I looked into the Deadlights, I saw all of our futures. I saw my entire life. I'm going to marry a man named Tom Rogan and he's going to rape me, just like my daddy did." Ben was incredibly still, his heart even seemed to have stopped. Everything that Bev was saying, it was like she was reading a history textbook. Her face was still and emotionless. "But that's ok. I saw Tom die, too.

" _ It  _ isn't dead, not yet. It's going to come back, and we're going to reunite in twenty-two years and kill It for real." She flipped Ben's hand and placed a kiss on the scar on his palm. "I don't know why I'm remembering this all now, but I can see everything so clearly. And I can see myself going home tomorrow and forgetting all of this again. 

"We are living in history, Ben. This night is happening now and forever. Don't you see? Richie will always be being burnt, Eddie will always be screaming for help, you will always be pulling Clench off, and I will be always crying into that pillow over there. But it's okay. Because Eddie will always be spooning Richie on the couch and you will always be kissing me. Everything happens at once, all of eternity is just a flicker. It's okay, though. It's  _ okay." _

"You mean you're seeing  _ everything _ ?" Ben asked, nearly incredulous.

"Yes and no. I see a memory of everything. It faded once, and it's already starting to fade again."

"Well, shit Bev! Let me grab a notepad, you need to write this down."

"No, Ben. I'm not meant to know what I see, and I'm definitely not meant to tell anyone else. You need to forget everything I've just said."

"You said you're going to marry that  _ guy… _ Write it down so we can change it!" He thrust a pen in her hand from the bedside table. She handed it back and looked at him with a sad smile.

"No, we can't. It's already happening. Everything is already written."

"But what about us?" he said, a fat tear tracking down his cheek.

"We'll get there," her eyes were wistful, "we're just going to have to take the long way. I think you and I are linked somehow. It was your kiss that saved me from the Deadlights and now I think I'm remembering because I'm with you again." She got off the bed, leaving the blanket behind. She put her underwear back on. Where do you think I can find a t-shirt to borrow?"

"That's it, huh? You just unload the truths of the universe on me and now you're ready to move on?"

"Remember what you said: it's  _ good  _ to forget. You have such a beautiful life in front of you Ben Hanscom, and eventually we'll get to try  _ this," _ she gestured to their half-dressed bodies, "again, and it'll go so much better. But for now, I already know what we do. I go into Bill's parent's room and steal a big 'ol t-shirt and we go downstairs and fall asleep holding each other on the carpet in the living room." She was smiling for real now, "it's already written."

"And then what? I'm supposed to just drive you home tomorrow and forget about you until we're forty? I'm supposed to let you marry a rapist? You told me you're going to school in New York… that's like three thousand miles away from where I'm going…" He was crying, still sitting at the end of the bed. "I  _ love  _ you, Bev. Wholly and completely." She bent down too, and kissed his soft lips.

"I love you too, Ben." 

Then, she walked out of the room and returned wearing one of Bill's dad's shirts, just as she'd said. He composed himself and stood up. 

"Before you forget… Please just tell me that we all end up happy and safe." Flashes of Stan and Eddie flickered through Beverly's mind.  _ Blood. Fear.  _ She grabbed Ben's hand.

"Come on, let's go downstairs." Together, holding hands, they descended the stairs as the sun rose in that beautifully early way of Maine on the cusp of summer. 


	8. Epilogue: The Morning After

 

#  Epilogue 

##  The Morning After

" _ Holy shit, Haystack!  _ You get some last night?" Ben's eyes opened to find Richie balancing on one crutch, looking down at him and Bev. He blushed realizing how dishevelled he looked. His shirt was wrinkled and the buttons were in the wrong holes, his bowtie and jacket were still on the floor next to Bev's dress in the guest room. She was sleeping next to him, and it was quite obvious that she wasn't wearing more than underwear and the t-shirt. 

"Beep-beep asshole," he said getting up. He was greeted by the smell of eggs and bacon. 

"Stop it Bill!" came Stan's shrill voice from the kitchen, "you'll spill the flour!"

"And you really shouldn't taste raw pancake batter, Mike! You could get salmonella, you know." Eddie piped in.

"Well did ya?" Richie said, pointing a piece of bacon in Bev's direction, "Get some, I mean."

"Fuck off, we just made out." Ben scratched the back of his hair. He couldn't remember exactly when he'd gone to sleep and was unsure of which parts of the previous night had been a dream. He did distinctly remember going down on Bev, not that he'd ever let Richie know. 

"You know I'm just messing with you," he said, offering Ben the half-chewed bacon. Ben sighed, but took it anyway. "Should we wake up Sleeping Beauty, or nah?" 

Before Ben could answer, the rest of The Losers came out with a parade of food. "B-b-breakfast is ready!" 

Ben let out a low whistle as they placed the plates on the table. A few years back Stan had taken up baking and Mike had innate cooking skills from his years working at Quality Meats, so whenever the group had big gatherings like this, the duo always prepared the food. 

"Richie, did you steal the bacon?" Eddie scolded.

"Aw Eds, I'm Robin Hood, I took it for 'ol Benny. It's only fair that I pay him back for four years of shared lunches." He placed a wet kiss on Eddie's cheek.

"Next time, brush your teeth before you kiss me, Bacon Breath." 

"As you wish Sir Spaghetti," said Richie, popping another bit of stolen food in his mouth. 

"Do I smell pancakes?" Bev sauntered in and put her arms around Ben. She looked so at ease, her face was lineless and peaceful as though she'd never cried before in her life. 

"Uh, Bev? I have some extra pants here if you want to borrow some," Eddie said. He'd always been the most scandalized by seeing Bev in any sort of state of undress.

"Y-you c-can keep the shirt too," Bill added, "I d-don't think my d-dad would notice."

"Oh, that'd be nice. The thought of having to put my dress back on for the ride back home seems dreadful." 

A few minutes later, Bev was wearing a pair of Eddie's jeans that were tight in the hips, but otherwise a perfect fit. 

"Eddie, you're adorably tiny," Richie laughed, pulling him onto his lap.

"You are so lucky you're already injured, because you know I'd break your arm for saying that on any other day," Eddie replied, scowling.

"Oh, har, har, har." 

Eddie made his way to his own seat and filled his plate. The group started their breakfast in silence, but Richie's unbroken leg bounced up and down in agitation. "You know, the gravity of what happened last night is starting to set in for me," he said pushing his plate away. "I think I'm sort've fucked."

"Richie… we don't need to think about that yet," was Eddie's reply.

"Nope. We're doing it now. My car is stranded at school, I have $300 worth of rented equipment presumably sitting in the gym, the  _ locked  _ gym, I might add. If I don't bring that shit back today, I'll be paying a $50 late fee. Now add that to the $800 hospital bill I accumulated last night, plus however fucking much it costs for follows up for my damn leg and I'll  _ never _ be able to get to L.A. I can see my whole life: I'm gonna be trapped here in debt and die a Derry Dumbass just like my parents." His leg was now jittering out of control and Eddie was looking at him, helpless.

"I'm going to the bathroom," Stan announced and left. 

Bev looked to Richie and said: "No you're not. You're going to leave here in two months, make it to Hollywood and become a famous DJ and entertainer extraordinaire. Rich "Records" Tozier, that's you, right?" She said this as though she knew it as a fact. Ben's skin crawled as he realized that maybe this  _ was _ a fact. It seemed he hadn't dreamed much of anything up. What had she said?  _ I saw all of our futures.  _

"All right Miss Psychic, how the fuck is that gonna happen?" Richie fired back, irritated at the way Bev had seemingly dismissed his very real problems.

"Stan is going to give you the money," she said, furrowing her eyebrows as if it were common knowledge.  

Like magic, Stan returned.

"Richie, I want to give you the money." Five pairs of incredulous eyes stared wide, shifting from Bev to Stan. "I've thought about it, and I can afford it. I wasn't there for you in the hospital, and that was wrong with me. I prayed to God, and this is how I'm going to make it right."

"Holy shit!" Richie exclaimed.

"I know you're probably thinking it's charity, but I promise it's not. I want you to have the money because you're my friend."

"No, I'm definitely taking the money! It's just that I think we have a legit soothsayer in our presence. Bev here, fucking called it! A toast to  _ her _ !"

"You wish. I'm not psychic, I just know my friends really well. We can make a toast, but it'll have to be towards Stan, not me." Bev said, raising her orange juice and clinking glasses with her friends as Stan sat back down, blushing. 

"To Stan!" bellowed Richie. "How on Earth do you have that much money to begin with?" 

"I didn't tell anyone, but Moira and I were planning to get married," he said, biting his lip, willing himself not to cry.

"Shit, am I going to have to get the bong out again? The bitch must've said some real harsh stuff about me for you to call off a fucking wedding." Richie said, eliciting a few beep-beeps.

"Don't call her a bitch. And it wasn't just what she said, it was that she  _ meant  _ it. In a way, I'm glad she did what she did. It's better to find out before I'm married to someone who has a fundamentally different worldview than me." 

"Well I'm glad to have freed you from the 'ol ball and chain." Richie pushed his too-tight glasses up his nose, "I know I joke a lot–"

"Ha! You can say that again," said Eddie through a bite of eggs, Richie glared at him. "Sorry."

"As I was saying, I know I joke a lot, but thank you." Richie got up and hobbled over to Stan and enveloped him in a hug.

"Ok, n-n-now that w-we've got Richie's life plan f-figured out, anyone else w-want to share?" Leave it to Big Bill to bring the focus back to the group. Talking about the future made him itchy as hell, but something told him that this might be his last opportunity to talk to his friends all at once about what comes next. "I, for one, am r-ready to announce th-th-that I'm going to st-study Creative Writing at UMaine's P-Portland campus."

"That's not very practical–" started Eddie.

"BEEP-BEEP EDDIE!" Richie yelled, grin splitting his face.

"How long have you been waiting to do that?" Eddie asked.

"Eighteen years, baby!" he said kissing Eddie's forehead. Before he could complain of unbrushed teeth again, Richie added: "I'm proud of you Billy Boy! I'm sure you'll be wearing a blazer with leather elbow patches in no time!" he turned to Eddie, "And since you're so into practicality, care to share your almighty plan, Eds?"

"Well, I'm going to Colgate, but you guys already know that," he said. Indeed, none of the guys could forget. Eddie had waved his acceptance letter around for weeks when it'd come in the mail. "As for my major, I'm currently undecided, if you must know."

"I think you should be a nurse, Eddie." Mike said from across the table.

"Aw, hilarious. Are you sure you didn't mean a flight attendant or a hairdresser?"

"You know I didn't mean it like that. You're always the first to patch us all up and the way you took care of Richie last night was admirable."

"He's right, my boy!" said Richie in one of his voices, "you'd make a fine nurse! You can practice by playing doctor with me!"

"First off, no. And second, what happens when an old lady pukes all over me?"

"You'd handle it."

"No, I'll probably leave college as unsure as I am now. Who wants to bet I'll be stuck driving taxis for a living?" 

"Eddie, my dear, then you'd  _ really  _ have to worry about puke! If anything, you'd be a limo driver! I can see it now: Classy Kaspbrak showing celebs the big city!" Richie said, pointing to an imaginary apparition. 

"Ugh, kill me if it comes to that." Ben was the only one to notice the strange look of recognition on Bev's face. 

"Well I'm going to the University of Rochester to get my degree in accounting, and I think maybe I'll hold off on my love life for a while. Maybe I'll meet a  _ nice  _ girl," said Stan. The group gave him awkward, supportive smiles.

"You will, Stan. I can almost see her now. A nice, beautiful girl that you'll love and that will love you back," something sweet and sorrowful crossed Bev's eyes as she spoke.

"Thank you, Bev. It means a lot," Stan said, mirroring her odd smile, "where do you plan on going?"

"Oh, uh The Fashion Institute of Technology. It's in NYC, I want to be a designer. I know it sounds kind of silly, but it's what I want to do." A memory of a memory of the future flashed by:  _ Tom. Tom Rogan at Wichita State College. Chicago. Tom Rogan in Chicago. Tom Rogan waiting. Waiting to whup her now and forever.  _ "I think I'll be good, too."

"I'm going to the University of Maine," Mike spoke up, "But unlike Bill, I'm going to the main campus, that way I'll only be forty minutes away from home."

"Ugh! To each their own! The main reason I'm going L.A. is to get as far away from this shit town as possible! At least 'ol Haystack agrees with me. You're going to UC Berkeley, aren't ya?"

"Well that was the plan, but I think I might be going to New York instead. I didn't tell anyone, but I got accepted to Cooper Union. It's this crazy selective school that focuses on art and engineering, and of course, architecture. They trained Ricardo Scofidio who's this amazing up-and-coming architect. Basically, if you have a degree from there you have a name in the industry. And the best part is the tuition is free, isn't that nuts? It's only two miles away from FIT, too."

"W-w-wow. I w-wish B-Bowdoin had free tuition! I've n-never heard of anything l-like that. Y-you've got to go!" The rest of The Losers all joined in with their congratulations and amazement. Bev was silent, her eyes were wide and confused.

They finished their breakfast in the comfort of each other's presence. Eddie rested his head on Richie's shoulder as Bill told jokes with Stan and Mike. Bev held Ben's hand under the table, stroking the scar on his palm with her thumb. After a while, Bev stood up.

"As much as I wish we could sit around here eating pancakes forever, I have to be heading out."

There was a chorus of 'No's, but Bev hugged each of them with a farewell in her eyes. She held Stan for a particularly long time, as if it were the last time she'd ever see him. "Remember what I told you. Somewhere out there,  there is a kind, loving woman who is going to love you  _ so  _ much. You're a brave one Stanley, don't let anyone tell you otherwise." She placed a kiss on his curls. Then she embraced Eddie, "You're not getting your pants back, I hope you know. I'll have to let out the hips, but I quite like them."

"Is that you're way of saying you're not coming back here before you leave?" 

"I'm going to New York next week. I have a job waiting tables already set up and I want get into the rhythm of the city before school starts." Ben's heart sank.  _ Why hadn't she said something before?  _ He'd thought that after prom, they'd have a whole summer together. "Are you ready Ben?" she asked, her dress in one arm, purse in the other. 

"Uh, yeah." 

Then they were in the car. Back to being apart; back to forgetting. 

I-95 felt like a long and endless stretch of gray. 

"Bev?" Ben asked, a few miles out of Derry.

"Yes?"

"About what happened last night… how much do you remember?"

"Nothing." 

Ben didn't believe her. 

"What you said about Stan giving Richie the money… You'd tell me if you still saw all that stuff, right?" He prayed that her vision was clear and cursed the fact that she'd ever seen the Deadlights in the first place. The night before, her eyes seemed to be leaking light. It'd been as if some great, unholy power had illuminated her mind. She'd seen things no mortal being should ever see.

"You know how in the lobby of the Aladdin they have those mirrors on both sides of the walls?"

"Yeah, what does that have to do with anything?"

"Well the mirrors reflect each other infinitely, right? Only each reflection is smaller and more hazy and green. My mind is like that, I think. I see all of it, but in each time I think of it, it falls into a further level of reflection. And now, it's already the smallest segment that you can still discern. Does that make sense?"

"I guess." The drive dragged on. "Last night, you said that we can't change the future. You said that it was already written. I don't believe that."

"Why?"

"You said you were going to marry someone named Tom Rogan, but I don't think so."

"How come?"

"Well when the rest of the guys were talking about their plans, you looked like you already knew what they were going to say. But when I said that I'm changing my decision to Cooper Union, you looked shocked. So that must mean, that in your tunnel of mirrors, or whatever, I went to UC Berkeley. I'm serious about going to New York, though. Which means we won't lose touch. I think that means that I'm doing the impossible. Beverly Marsh, I'm going to change the future for you." 

"Why? Because you love me?" 

"Wholly and completely." 


End file.
